


The Way to a Man's Heart

by I_mNotYourEnemy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_mNotYourEnemy/pseuds/I_mNotYourEnemy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I was just testing out your baking on the unsuspecting public,” Sasha said, grinning.</p><p>Marco laughed and Jean noticed a brief look of apprehension flicker across his features. “And how did that go?”</p><p>“I’m fairly sure Jean got turned on by your cookies, so I would say pretty well.” </p><p>....</p><p>In which Sasha's family owns a bakery, Jean's friends work there, and a freckled angel is hired as the new chef.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jean almost regretted his decision to drop by Armin’s workplace before heading home, mostly due to the rain and his distinct grumpiness that followed, but only almost. His current options were hanging out for ten minutes or so at the Blouse’s family bakery—creatively named 'Blouse Bakery'—or grinding his teeth in frustration upon being left alone in the apartment with Eren. It was hardly a difficult choice, if a somewhat damp one.

The warmth of the bakery was welcome after the miserable trek. Jean shook the excess water droplets from his hair and noted in slight annoyance that in a few minutes, the ends of the longer parts of his hair would mostly like curl outwards. He hated the rain.

Armin’s shift lasted until closing hours, although very few people seemed to drop by during this time. Couples sat at odd tables, chatting quietly over carefully baked delicacies, and a customer or two stood by the menu board, reading over it with narrowed eyes as they whittled down their choices. The place was painted a soft beige colour and various certificates and photographs were hung on the wall. It wasn't overly large, just large enough for a few tables and a long counter than ran along one wall, but it was comfortable and smelled perpetually of freshly baked goods.

A man with a shaved head served the customers sitting at tables, bringing over refills of various drinks or extra slices of cake. The apron he wore was a shade of green that was quite frankly alarming, but unfortunately mandatory for all employees to wear. He grinned obnoxiously as he spotted Jean lurking by the doorway and gestured for him to come in further.

Connie ducked under the counter and stood by his colleague—a young man with his blonde hair tied back in a short ponytail. Armin finished serving the current customer, waved them off, and then turned to Jean with a delighted albeit somewhat confused smile. 

“Hey, Jean. Are you here for food or company?” he asked, leaning on the counter.

Jean shrugged. “Company, I guess. We’ve got that project to work on so I figured I’d pick you up from work. Looks like I’m a little early.”

Armin glanced over his shoulder and at the clock, before directing his gaze back to Jean. “Just a bit. Sasha said she’d probably close up early today, since her dad’s not around to enforce and strict regulations.”

Jean’s brows creased in confusion, but Connie spoke before he could voice his question.

“Thank God. That man took  _hours_ to close up,” he groaned. “Seriously, all you have to do is clean the dishes, wipe down the surfaces, and lock the door. He always made us, like, count every piece of cutlery and—and,” he gesticulated wildly, as if trying to conjure up more examples, “check every piece of machinery, even though we’d been using them all day, and triple check that the counters were spotless.”

Armin huffed beside him. “He wasn’t  _that_  bad. He just wanted to make sure his bakery was in top condition.”

Jean looked between the two of them. “Did I miss something? What’s up with Sasha’s dad?”

Armin’s head tilted to the side fractionally. “I thought I’d told you. He was involved in car accident a couple of weeks ago and has to take a break from work.”

“Oh.” Jean paused, unsure of how exactly he was supposed to respond. “That sucks. Is he okay?”

“Yeah,” Armin nodded. “I think he’s just more concerned about this place falling to pieces in his absence.”

A man sat at the table a few feet away from them glanced up and called for service.

“I did the last one,” Connie announced swiftly.

“It’s fine, I’ve got it,” Armin replied, ducking and appearing on the other side of the counter. He trotted over to the man, small notepad and pen at the ready.

Connie rested his elbow on the counter and propped his chin upon his closed fist. “So how come you’re here? As much as I'm sure you're craving my irresistible company, I'm sure you've got some underlying motives.”

“Well, Armin’s my partner in this ancient civilisations project and we said we’d get started on it tonight,” said Jean.

“Mhmm,” Connie sounded, not looking entirely convinced. “You could’ve gone straight home and gotten a head start on it.”

Jean tensed his shoulders and glanced away. “Jäger’s already home. I’d rather be here than alone in the vicinity of his blatant stupidity.”

He heard a scoff from behind him and turned just in time to see Armin rolling his eyes. “He’s not stupid, Jean. Besides, I think Mikasa’s visiting tonight, so you wouldn’t have been alone.” He’d placed his ballpoint pen behind his ear and was working on extracting the last slice of French vanilla cake from the display cabinet.

Much to Jean’s embarrassment, he couldn’t prevent the almost instinctual blush that crept up his cheeks upon hearing Mikasa’s name. Connie noticed and unhelpfully pointed it out; loud statement accompanied by equally loud laughter.

“Fuck, Connie, shut up,” Jean grumbled, glaring at his friend.

“Sorry, dude, it’s just funny. I can’t believe you still have a thing for Jäger’s sister.”

“Shut up. She’s adopted, so she didn’t inherit any stupidity, and besides, she’s hot,” he reasoned.  _And intelligent beyond belief, and quietly caring, and she has a sense of humour almost as dry as the Sahara Desert_ , he added mentally.

Jean wan’t sure if he should've been grateful for the following distraction of Sasha bounding out of the kitchen, clad in her chef uniform and carrying a tray of cookies, freshly baked judging by the mouth-watering smell. On the one hand, it meant Connie dropped the subject and ceased his teasing, but on the other hand, it was Sasha. Sasha hardly ever meant good news.

She pushed Connie aside, ignored his indignant protests, and placed the tray on the counter. “Jean, you are going to take on of these cookies, eat it, and then give me your honest opinion.”

Jean had long since abandoned any worries of food poisoning when it came to Sasha—her cooking was like a gift from the heavens—so complied with the orders happily and without hesitation. He was a college student and this was free food. It was only the logical thing to do.

The cookie was at the perfect temperature; hot enough to taste fresh but cool enough to avoid any tongue-scalding. It was lightly crispy around the edges but far fluffier on the inside. His eyes widened in surprise he tasted an unexpected flavour. A small pocket of caramel was buried within the cookie, ready to be exposed on the first bite. A string of caramel trailed from Jean’s lips to the uneaten section of the cookie. It broke from the cookie and fell against Jean’s chin. He wiped it off with the back of his hand.

“So?” Sasha questioned, brows raised.

Jean swallowed and said, “This cookie is orgasmic. I’ve reached Cookie-Nirvana.”

A grin blossomed on her lips and she bounced on her heels. “Great! We’re trialling a new chef to replace Dad while he’s off and I wanted an unbiased opinion.”

Jean, who had just finished eating the rest of the cookie, wiped away a few crumbs from his lips and reached for another one. Sasha slapped his hand away. He whined and she responded by sticking her tongue out.

“What even are they?”

“Well, I told him to just bake some cookies—you know, as, like, a basic test—and he came out with these so I decided to call them ‘Chilli-Caramel Surprise’.”

“Doesn’t calling them ‘Chilli-Caramel Surprise’ kind of ruin the surprise?” Connie deadpanned. That earned him a swat over the head.

“Sasha?” a voice called from behind them. “What’re you doing? I need some help finishing the dough for tomorrow.”

Sasha looked over her shoulder and Jean followed her gaze. A man, roughly his age although maybe a year or two older, had stuck his head around the door to the kitchen. Some dark hair fell into his eyes but the rest was held back by a net. Freckles dusted his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, and he had a streak of flour smeared just below his left eye.

“Ah, I’ll be there in two seconds. I was just testing out your baking on the unsuspecting public,” replied Sasha.

Marco laughed and Jean noticed a brief look of apprehension flicker across his features. “And how did that go?”

“I’m fairly sure Jean got turned on by your cookies, so I would say pretty well.” She nudged Jean playfully. He couldn’t even think of a witty retort in time; she’d already taken the tray and dashed back to the kitchen by the time he’d processed her comment and the odd, yet strangely amused, look the other man had given him.

“Oh, and Armin,” Sasha called. “You can head home. Connie and I can handle the rest.”

Armin smiled thankfully at her from across the room. Connie groaned and slumped forwards, mumbling something about favouritism.

The first thing Jean noticed as they stepped out of the bakery was that the rain had stopped. The streets were still wet and puddles lined the pavement, but the air was crisp and refreshing. He was in a much better mood than he had been a before. Armin chatted beside him, talking mostly about how his shift had been and the classes he’d been to that morning. Jean kept mostly to his own thoughts and by the time he tuned back into the conversation, a lull had lapsed between them.

“So, since when has there been a freckled angel working in the kitchen?” he asked.

Armin snickered and almost faltered in his steps. “Only two days. Marco’s pretty nice, though. I hope he sticks around.”

“Marco,” Jean repeated. “Maybe I should start dropping by more often.”

Armin glanced across at him knowingly. “I didn’t think Marco was your type.”

Jean offered a shrug in reply. “I’m open to all options. Besides, dark hair is always a bonus and I didn’t even know I had a thing for freckles until today.”

Armin laughed again but allowed for the topic to be dropped. Jean mentioned something about a title question for their project, which spurred on Armin’s specific brand of wide-eyed, endearing rambling.

 

* * *

 

Jean twirled his pen between his fingers, his eyes scanning over the text before him. A loud crash came from the room beside him and he dropped the pen.

“Oh for—what are they even doing?” Jean asked irately, throwing a glare at the wall. “It just sounds like really violent sex which is just weird and creepy.”

Armin looked up from his note-taking, his eyes glinting in amusement. “I think they’re sparring again.”

Jean leant back against his chair, heaving a long-suffering sigh. “Can’t they do it some other time? Or at least not in the apartment? The neighbours complain about us enough already.”

“If you and Eren stopped acting like five year olds and didn’t have arguments every day then there wouldn’t be an issue,” Armin pointed out, returning to his writing in order to avoid the glare was not being directed at him.

“They’ve been at it for hours. Can’t they just go to a gym or some fighting club or something?”

Armin shrugged. Jean sighed again, but this time rose to his feet. No doubt Jäger was getting his ass kicked but was too stubborn to give up. If so, Jean wanted to see it.

When Jean opened the door to Eren’s bedroom, he was unsurprised to see the boy pinned to the ground by his sister. Both were clad in loose sports clothes and breathing heavily. Mikasa moved off Eren and stood, holding out a hand to help him up.

“Again?” Eren asked, smiling despite his loss.

He had his back to Jean and was apparently oblivious to his presence. Mikasa inclined her head in the direction of the doorway, signalling for Eren to turn around. He did so and his demeanour changed immediately. The two had learnt to be at least civil to one another in the past few months of cohabitation. They’d only met when Jean moved in; he’d been a friend of Armin’s and had complained about needing somewhere new to stay. Armin had graciously offered for him to join him and his roommate, since they had a spare room and could do with someone else helping to pay rent. Unfortunately, Eren and Jean clashed, both too stubborn and hard-headed to get along. They’d settled into mutual dislike; it was hard to keep up an active hatred of someone when you slept merely feet away from the other person, only separated by a thin wall.

“What are you two doing?” Jean asked.

“Sparring,” the two siblings replied in unison, Eren defensively and Mikasa in a masked tone of indifference.

“Can you quit it or just give it a break for a while? We’re trying to work in the other room.”

Eren opened his mouth, probably to argue or give some dumb reply, but he stopped as Mikasa placed a hand on his arm.

She looked from Eren to Jean and said, “Sure. We’re sorry for the inconvenience.”

Eren closed his mouth and looked away uncomfortably.

“Oh, uh, thanks, Mikasa,” Jean replied, clearing his throat awkwardly. He hesitated for a moment before turning away and exiting the room.

Armin was waiting for him as he entered the combined living room and dining room area. “Maybe we should do the project away from home next time.”

Jean nodded and sat down, his hands moving to rub soothing circles at his temples. “Yeah, that would be good.”

“How about the bakery?” Armin asked, his voice bright in an obvious attempt to diffuse Jean’s frustration. He disliked the tension between his two friends. He could see why Jean would be perpetually annoyed with Eren’s existence, but being life-long friends with someone generally led to acceptance of the person’s unfavourable traits. He knew Eren far better than he knew most people and he knew how to deal with him. Jean was still new to Eren’s way and had yet to accept them, hence the frustration.

Jean considered the prospect for a moment and then nodded. “Sure.”

“I finish at about midday tomorrow. Why don’t we spend lunch there and see how much we can get done?” He smiled to himself and look down at his book. “I think Marco’s working tomorrow too.”

Jean rolled his eyes and aimed a half-hearted shove in Armin’s direction. “Oh, shut up.”


	2. Chapter 2

The bakery was noticeably more crowded the next time Jean visited. There was still room to manoeuvre around the place but the number of sugar-craving business people and students on the verge of breakdowns was unnerving. He raised his hand in a quick wave to Connie, who looked extremely overwhelmed by the amount of _actual_ work he was doing. (One time he’d tried to convince Jean he was allergic to working hard; they later found out that it was just been the shower gel he’d been using.)

Armin had wisely chosen the table in the furthest corner for their study session, far away from the slight mania going on by the counter. Jean sighed a breath of relief as he sat down. He placed a small pile of books on the table and withdrew several pens from his bag. Armin already had various pieces of paper scattered about the table, in what Jean was sure was a very methodical manner that likely only made sense to Armin, and was highlighting and annotating the draft he’d written up last night.

“Hey, Jean,” he said without glancing up.

Jean pulled his first book forwards and opened it at the bookmarked page. “How’d you know it was me? I could’ve been a murderer seeking blood.”

“In a bakery?”

“Yes.”

Armin laughed and shook his head. “You come with a certain aura of angst. It’s easy to detect.”

Jean paused and frowned at the other boy. “I don’t have angst.”

“Yes, you do.” He leaned forwards and spun the paper around, so it looked the right way up to Jean. “Do you think this bit here is necessary? I’m not sure if we should just get rid of it all together or elaborate on it more. It’s a bit vague at the moment.”

Jean skimmed through Armin’s meticulously neat handwriting. He thought for a moment, and then gave a shrug. “I can’t do this without coffee.”

“Already ahead of you,” Armin said, pushing a steaming mug towards the other.

“Has it got—“

“Enough caffeine to kill a man? Yes.”

Jean smirked. “Great.”

“I assumed you hadn’t eaten yet so I asked Sasha to pull something together.”

At that point, his stomach decided to make itself known by giving a startlingly loud grumble. “Uh, yeah, thanks. Is it gonna take long? They look a little busy at the moment.”

Armin cast his gaze in the direction of the serving counter. Connie was writing rapidly as a middle-aged woman rambled expressively, her hands moving constantly. Jean could only pick out the phrases ‘this _exact_ shade of pink’ and ‘so much glitter it could put Gaga to shame’. He decided he didn’t want to know.

“Maybe I should…” Armin trailed off, but Jean could guess how the sentence would’ve ended.

“Armin, you’re off duty right now. They can handle it. It just looks worse than it is.” Armin looked ready to argue his point, but Jean cut him off. “We really need to find a place to hang out that isn’t a place where either of us works.”

“We _could_ use the apartment if you would stop picking fights with Eren,” Armin not-so-helpfully pointed out.

Jean rolled his eyes and resisted the temptation to groan. “For the last time—”

“I know, I know,” Armin said, raising his hands defensively. “He starts it.”

Jean narrowed his eyes and then looked down to his book. “The apartment’s too small, anyway.”

A mutual silence passed between them, broken occasionally by the odd question about references or evidence. The two of them worked well together; they were both smart enough to not need their hand holding throughout the course of the project and Jean found that Armin’s logic and equanimity matched his rather blunt, if somewhat brash, personality quite well.

Jean jumped as a plate clattered to the table in front of him. He looked up wide-eyed, only to see Connie’s cackling face. He scowled and pulled the plate towards him. A stuffed sandwich sat atop it, no doubt made from freshly baked bread and seasoned to perfection. 

“Thanks.”

“No problem,” Connie replied, pulling up a chair and sitting by the end of their table. “How’re you two dorks fairing?”

“Perfectly fine until recently,” Jean retorted, sending a pointed stare in Connie’s direction.

It only made Connie laugh again. “You guys wouldn’t believe the people we’ve had in today. This soccer mom was adamant that our pricing for birthday cakes was wrong and her darling little princess deserved a discount.”

“Was that the woman ranting about edible glitter?” Armin asked, capping his pen. Connie nodded, his expression of one recalling a traumatic event.

“Is that even a thing?” Jean asked. “Edible glitter?”

Armin nodded. “Oh, yeah. I just feel bad for the bakers who have to use it. It gets _everywhere_.”

“I found some in my underwear once,” Connie added. “I don’t even know how it got there.”

Jean met Armin’s equally confused gaze. Both turned away to hide their snickers, leaving Connie to reminisce quietly about the incident to himself.

“Connie!” All three looked in the direction of the voice. Marco stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a towel slung casually over his shoulder. “Sasha’s been calling for service for about five minutes,” he called over. Connie yelped and scrambled to his feet, knocking the chair over in his haste. Armin bent to pick it up. Jean watched amusedly as Connie scampered away to attend his forgotten chores. His gaze lingered just a few seconds too long on Marco, who seemed to take no notice of him before heading back inside the kitchen. When Jean looked away, he saw Armin with an all-too-knowing look in his eyes.

“Stop it,” Jean pre-emptively warned.

“I haven’t said anything,” Armin defended, although the smirk curling at his lips betrayed his thoughts.

“Yeah, well, you’re thinking it.”

“You’re a telepath now?” Armin asked, now openly smiling. “Seriously, Jean, you _could_ just go and talk to him.”

Jean shook his head. “Nope.”

“And why not?”

Jean folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them. When he spoke again, his voice was muffled. “He’s probably a secret douchebag.”

“… What?”

Jean tilted his head up so he could peer up at Armin. “It’s not possible to be that cute and good at baking and still have a good personality. It just defies all logic.”

Armin chuckled to himself, a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. “You do know he’s practically a Boy Scout, right? Not an ounce of douchebaggery on him.”

“Nuh-uh, not true. Just allow me to live in my denial forever.”

Armin rested his chin on his palm, his elbow now on the table top. “I’m confused. Do you _want_ him to be a douchebag?” Jean gave a small groan accompanied by a nod, which Armin took to be an affirmative response. “But—what? Why?”

“If he’s a douchebag then I won’t like him and I can move on with my life.”

Armin gave a huff of laughter. “Jean, you’ve known him for a day. Actually, you don’t really know him; you know _of_ him.”

“I know his face is nice and his cookies are amazing.”

“Oh, and of course that’s all you need to know,” Armin said, his voice practically oozing sarcasm.

“Yes, and now I can avoid him forever.”

Armin closed his eyes for a moment, as if finding the will to continue the conversation and reason with Jean. “Jean, this is why you don’t have many friends.”

Jean perked up, his back now straight against the chair. “Excuse you, I have lots of friends. It’s just that most of them suck.” Armin arched an eyebrow. Jean faltered and gave a sheepish smile. “Not you, of course. You rock.”

Armin held his gaze for a few seconds longer, his eyes perceptive and calculating, and then nodded. “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

Jean pushed his reading glasses up to his head and rubbed his eyes. He sighed. His brain was swimming with facts and words he could barely pronounce; he needed a break. His spine popped as he straightened up from his slouch and arched his back. The bakery was much quieter now, so much so that Jean had almost forgotten where he was. Usually he would opt to carry out his work in the library, but the bakery was almost exactly equidistant between the apartment and the college, and it was much more convenient for Armin. The rush had long since passed. Every now and then a passer-by would stop to stare at the window display before either turning to continue on their way or making a quick detour to purchase their chosen delight. Few stopped long enough to take a seat and spend a short while enjoying the food. So many people were in a rush; they hardly ever slowed down. Everything was looming deadlines and impending decisions. How hard could it be to just stop and take a look around to notice things? Notice people? People acted like life was the shortest thing on Earth, when really it was the longest thing they would every experience. Rushing would only make it go faster.

“—I _must_ be tired,” Jean groaned, carding a hand through his hair.

“You going all philosophical again?” Armin asked, straightening his short pile of paper.

“Yeah. At least we’re almost done, though.”

Armin nodded and flipped through the pages. “It shouldn’t need much more adding to it. It just needs typing out and reorganising a bit. I can probably do that over the weekend.”

The two packed the books away into their respective bags and organised a time to go over their draft and word process it in the next week or so, which wasn’t particularly difficult considering they lived together.

“What time is it?” Jean asked. Armin pointed towards the counter, where a rather large and obvious clock hung on the wall, informing Jean that it was around half-three. “Oh.”

Connie was still working, as he most likely would be until closing time. He stood in the kitchen’s doorway with his foot preventing the door from closing on him. “Hey, guys, we’re running out of mocha cupcakes.”

He pressed himself against the door to make room for Marco, who walked through into the counter area with a tray of pastries. “Sasha’s already ahead of you. She’s just waiting for the batch to cool so she can ice them.”

Connie moved over to help Marco place the small pastries on the display shelf. Jean leaned back on his chair, balancing on its back legs, to look at them.

“Almond shortcrust pastry,” Armin supplied, surprising Jean. He jumped and his chair legs clattered noisily to the floor. “You want one?”

Jean shook his head. “No. I was, uh, just curious. They smell good.”

Armin’s gaze shifted to something to the side of Jean’s head. Jean turned to follow his gaze. Marco had left Connie placing pastries on the shelf, turning them so there best side was presented, and ducked under the counter. He walked towards them with a kind smile on his face. Jean glanced away.

“Hey,” he greeted. Unlike Connie, he didn’t invite himself to sit at their table. He stood with his hands interlocked behind his back, his weight shifted unequally to his left leg.

“Hi, Marco,” Armin replied. He paused for a moment and looked between the two others. “Oh, right, you haven’t—um. Jean, this is Marco, the new baker. Marco, this is Jean, the one with the undercut and perpetually angsty expression we were telling you about.”

“Oh for—I’m not angsty,” Jean protested, his cheeks heated.

Marco only laughed good-naturedly and extended a hand to Jean. “Nice to meet you, Jean,” he said, shaking Jean’s hand.

“Likewise.” It was the first time he’d spoken to Marco and the first time he’d really seen him close up. His hair was in need of a cut; it was falling into his eyes in a way that was obviously irritating, as he kept flicking it away. The freckles dusted across his face were faded around the outside and most prominent on his cheekbones. His eyes were of a light brown and crinkled at the edges from smiling. He noticed an area of skin around his neck that was shiny, slightly pink, and puckered. It crept up his jawline and disappeared into his baker’s uniform, so Jean couldn’t see the full extent of the wound.

Armin jostled his leg under the table, drawing him back to reality. Having never been one for subtly, Jean asked, “What happened?” whilst gesturing vaguely to the side of his neck.

A stunned expression crossed Marco’s face and he didn’t answer for a few seconds. Jean immediately began to scorn himself mentally. He tended to voice what was on his mind freely, regardless of the consequences, but this often led to insensitive questions realised only after they’d been asked.

“I was in a fire a few years ago,” Marco answered, his voice as cheery as it had been previously.

Jean glanced over to Armin, who ever so slightly shook his head. Instead of continuing his questioning, Jean motioned for Marco to lean down so he could reach him from his seated position. Marco looked a little bemused but complied.

“You have some glitter here,” Jean explained, dusting said glitter away from Marco’s cheek. He tried not smirk as he watched a blush readily stain Marco’s cheeks.

Thankfully, the somewhat awkward moment was broken by Armin’s comment of, “See? I told you it gets everywhere,” and the quiet laughter that followed. 

They all stopped and turned towards the kitchen as a sudden crash sounded, followed shortly by a round of screeching and mild cussing. Marco glanced warily between the two seated men and his workspace, unsure of how to proceed.

“Maybe I should…”

Armin smiled. “Yeah. Make sure Sasha doesn’t destroy the place.”

“Will do.” He gave them a mock salute and walked away. "Bye, guys."

Jean’s eyes stayed on his retreating figure until he disappeared into the kitchen and Armin asked, “Well?”

He gave the other a questioning look. “Well what?”

“Is he still a douchebag?”

Jean crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. “Yes. He is an utterly undeniable douchebag.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idek jean's in denial and i really like the sound of mocha cupcakes


	3. Chapter 3

Jean scowled at the piece of paper, which was now crumpled and slightly torn at the edges having taken the brunt of Jean’s irritation. It was his turn to go grocery shopping and it was just a recipe for disaster. His distaste for those with barely recognisable intelligence made the ordeal bad enough, but the shopping list he’d been handed on his way out of the apartment only made it worse. He considered calling Armin and asking him to translate Eren’s scrawl, but the reception within the supermarket was awful and he could hardly hear himself think over the sound of screaming children and shouting mothers.

He traipsed along the aisles of goods, grumbling under his breath about the shitty cart he’d chosen with the one fucked up wheel, and why there needed to be so many varieties of the same product, and why people couldn't just move at a normal pace or at least stand to the side so other people could pass. He’d considered bringing in a cattle prod one time to aid his shopping, although ultimately came to the conclusion that it would most like be counter-productive as he would probably get kicked out of the store.

It wasn’t hard to spot Sasha before she noticed him. In stark contrast to the painfully slow and spatially unaware customers around her, she somehow managed to manoeuvre her cart in an eccentric yet surprisingly fast manner, all while avoiding collisions with any people or inanimate objects. She grinned upon meeting Jean’s eyes.

“Hey there, horse face,” she greeted.

“Potato girl,” Jean retorted.

Sasha laughed. They’d both started off hating the nicknames given to them by their friends, but had grown used to them over time. “I’ve been meaning to catch up with one of you lot. I keep forgetting to talk to Armin at work.”

Jean quirked an eyebrow. “About what?”

“Christmas pizza party, duh.” He should’ve seen that one coming, really; each holiday Sasha held one of her infamous pizza parties, during which you either ate enough to burst or drank enough to pass out. “Obviously dorky sweaters are a necessity. No entry, otherwise.”

Jean briefly considered the homework he had left to complete and the nearing deadlines for submissions, and then realised what he was doing and stopped. “Yeah, sure. I’ll mention it to the others. We’ll probably be there.” Meaning Armin would want to go, which meant that Eren would want to go, leaving Jean the option of staying in alone or going to a place with free alcohol.

“Great!” Sasha exclaimed. “It’ll be on Friday or Saturday. I’ll text you details whenever.”

“Awesome,” Jean replied, with notably less enthusiasm, though he doubted anyone could match Sasha’s unique brand of excitement when it came to Christmas. “See you then.”

They parted ways and Jean returned to his mental stream of complaints. He really did hate shopping.

* * *

The apartment may have only been warmer than outside by a few degrees, but it felt like sanctuary as Jean finally stumbled through the door, his arms laden with bags of food and general necessities. Armin came into the hallway and relieved him of some of his load, happily chatting about his day whilst waiting for Jean to warm up enough to become a functioning human being again. They worked around each other as they put the groceries away and made space for Eren as he joined them to help.

“What’s that?” Jean asked, noticing the small paper bags used by Sasha’s bakery.

“Hmm?” Armin glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, leftovers. Almond and honey pastries and, uh, spiced gingerbread men, I think.”

Jean smiled. Some days Armin would return with varying amounts of leftovers from the bakery and would share them with his roommates. Sasha didn’t want any food going to waste and besides, it fed them when they were too lazy or busy to cook.

After that brief interruption, they moved back to their relative quietness as they sorted everything out. Jean and Eren mostly put things vaguely in the right position and Armin fixed it by placing them in the correct space. It wasn’t particularly efficient but it worked.

It was all going well until Eren said, “This is the wrong kind.”

Jean frowned. “What?”

Eren held up the pack of energy drinks in his hand. “This. It’s not the right brand.”

“Does it matter?”

“ _Yes_.”

Jean sighed and crossed his arms. “They’ve all got the same fucking ingredients in them. What does it matter if it’s got a different label on it?”

“But it’s _not the right one_ ,” Eren argued, raising his voice. “I wrote down the one I—”

“Well, maybe if you didn’t write in hieroglyphics then I could’ve got the kind you wanted.”

Eren opened his mouth to respond and no doubt blow things out of proportion. Armin interrupted him and subtly placed himself between the two men, his worried smile not quite reaching his eyes.

“It’s okay, Eren, I’ll get the drink you like in the morning.”

Eren looked from Armin to Jean and then back again. His tensed shoulders relaxed and he nodded. “Okay.”

Armin threw Jean an annoyed look as Eren turned back to the task at hand, silencing any retort about wasting money Jean had just been about to spew.

When they finished the chore, they settled on their small couch in their living room (which technically also doubled as a dining room, with the tiny, circular table and two chairs in the corner, but it was rarely ever used in such a manner). Jean sat at one end of the sofa, with an elbow resting on the arm of the sofa and his other arm draped across the back. Armin sat in the middle, resting back against the worn cushions. Eren sat to Armin’s other side, lying on his back with his head on the sofa’s arm and legs slightly bent. Armin never complained when Eren rested his socked feet on his lap, nor did Jean complain when Armin shifted into his personal space to accommodate for Eren.

Eren chose a random action movie for them to watch, purely to enjoy the explosions and cheesy one-liners. Jean preferred movies with logic and discernable plots and knew Armin favoured movies with more substance, but they could set aside preferences for one evening and enjoy the mindless violence playing out before them.

“I ran into Sasha while shopping,” Jean mentioned offhandedly as the hero—a stereotypical white, straight male with a gravelly voice and more than enough muscles to spare—raided an enemy warehouse. “She said her Christmas party is gonna be this weekend and asked if we want to go.”

“Yes,” Eren and Armin replied in unison, and then began discussing Christmas sweaters, completely ignoring the movie. Armin had the most out of all of them—more than Jean and Eren combined, although that wasn’t a particularly difficult feat considering they both had one, maybe two at maximum, hidden in the depths of their rooms. Eren would yet again wear the reindeer one, with the red pompom for a nose and bell on the reindeer’s collar. Armin was torn between his glittery snowflake sweater and the light-up Christmas tree. Jean shuddered at the thought of being caught wearing any of those things and was glad his had a more subtle festive vibe. He was happy with his navy wool and small snowman print, thank you very much. No, he didn’t need to sew tinsel onto it, and no, glitter would just get everywhere and be annoying; he was fine.

* * *

Sasha chose the Friday to host her party, as it was the afternoon her mother was free to oversee the running of the bakery in order to give her time off to decorate. The first thing Jean noticed as he entered her apartment was just how much she'd outdone herself this year. After last year, he hadn’t thought it was possible to cram any more tinsel and other decorations into the place, yet he had obviously assumed incorrectly. Mismatched decorations of all colours, shapes, and sizes hung from the ceiling and were draped over doorways. Sasha had yet again strategically placed sprigs of mistletoe in various places and Jean made sure to avoid each of them, lest Sasha appear and enforce the ‘rules of Christmas’. She took the festive season very seriously.

Cheesy Christmas songs played from a hidden set of speakers, long-forgotten bands singing about the joys of the winter holiday. Jean peeked inside the living room, where a rather brutal round of Mario Kart was taking place, and then made a beeline to the kitchen to dispose of the wine he, Eren, and Armin had brought with them.

Crudely cut paper snowflakes littered the kitchen counters, sprinkled around the bags and bowls of various junk foods. Jean paused as he entered the room, having not expected anyone else to be in there. Mikasa stood against one of the counters, pouring what looked like beer into a few plastic cups.

“Oh, hey, Mikasa,” he greeted, walking further in.

Mikasa gave the other a small smile. “Jean. Merry Christmas,” she replied, holding up her cup in a mock toast.

“Thanks. Uh, you too.”

Jean had never been subtle in his particular fondness for Mikasa and it had caused many arguments between him and Eren. He was at least thankful to have moved on from being a babbling, blushing wreck and, after his infatuation with her had calmed down, was now capable of handling a decent conversation with her. She was not as perfect as he’d originally envisioned her to be, but he’d acknowledged and accepted her flaws and developed a strange sort of friendship with her; they moved within the same friend groups so it would’ve been hard not to.

Her hair was still perfect, though, even if she did still cut whenever Eren made a comment about it.

“You need any help with those?” he asked, indicating to the cups she clutched at precariously.

“No, thank you. I’ll manage.”

He moved aside, allowing her to pass and join the party once more.

Jean returned to the living room to screaming and cheering. Connie sat cross-legged in front of the television, controller in hand and swaying from side to side as he turned corners on screen. His clothes were dusted with red and green glitter and someone had placed a pair of plastic antlers on his head. Ymir say beside him, her face a mask of concentration. Jean would never admit it aloud, but the tall, freckled girl scared him a bit. Sasha sat behind Connie, both cheering him on and distracting him from the race. A petite, blonde girl was sat next to Ymir, cheering her for girlfriend enthusiastically.

Sasha leapt to her feet as Jean sashayed into the room, enveloping him in a tight hug.

“Jean!” She stepped back and held out her arms, twirling on the spot. “What so you think?”

Jean arched an eyebrow. Her clothes were as mismatched as the decorations; her sweater was of a pale green, her shorts bright red, and one sock was orange while the other was pink. Baubles hung from various places about her being and her hair had been braided with tinsel.

“You look like a Christmas tree threw up on you,” he replied.

Sasha grinned. “Awesome. That’s exactly what I was going for.”

She dashed off without another word to join Eren, Armin, and Mikasa on the other side of the room. She pulled Armin away from the wall and began spinning vaguely in time with the music. Armin laughed good-naturedly and humoured her by joining in, but not before pulling Mikasa after him. If Jean had to guess, he’d say Sasha had already gotten her hands on the mulled wine.

A groan came from Connie as he flopped backwards, throwing his controller to the floor. Ymir smirked smugly and Krista kissed her cheek.

“You cheated! I was so close, that’s not fair!” Connie wailed, his antlers now lopsided.

Ymir merely shrugged. “Mario Kart is never fair.”

“That shit’s been known to destroy families and ruin friendships, Connie,” Jean said wisely, taking a seat beside the boy’s fallen form. “You should be careful with it.”

“Also, you suck at video games,” Ymir added helpfully.

Connie bolted upright, offended. “You take that back!”

Ymir leaned in, her smirk widening. “Never.”

Krista sighed softly and watched on as the two declared a rematch, hunched over with their gazes fixed solely on the television screen. Jean’s eyes met hers and he gave a shrug, as if to say ‘what can you do?’. She smiled in response.

There was a knock at the door, soft at first and then louder once the visitor realised the first had likely gone unheard due to the music within the apartment.

Sasha called, “Hey, someone get that. I think it’s Marco,” evidently too busy with dancing to do it herself.

Seeing as no one else got up to attend to the door, Jean stood and made his way to the hallway. He was fairly sure the door was unlocked, or at least it had been when he’d arrived.

Marco grinned bashfully as Jean opened the door, a large, plastic container in his arms. His cheeks were blushed from the bitter winds outside and he wore a slightly too big sweater with a pattern of leaping reindeer around the midriff.

Jean stepped back to let him in and tried to decipher the contents of the box. “What’s in there?”

Marco laughed. “Hello to you too. Sasha asked me to make something kinda Christmassy so I made snickerdoodles.”

Jean led him inside the apartment and frowned. “Snicker-whats?”

“Doodles. They’re like cinnamon sugar cookies,” Marco explained, opening the container and placing it on the coffee table. 

Krista leaned forwards to grab one, her eyes lighting up as she took a bite. Jean mimicked her actions, unsure of what to expect.

“How are they?” Marco questioned, somewhat apprehensively.

Jean shrugged. “Eh, they’re okay.”

Marco smiled but a look of disappointment lingered in his eyes.

Jean shoved his shoulder playfully. “Oh my God, I’m kidding; don’t look like such a kicked puppy. They taste like hopes and dreams. I may just devour them all.”

Marco huffed and shoved back lightly. “You’re such a butt.”

A pair of arms snaked around Marco’s shoulders and pulled him back suddenly, eliciting a yelp from the man.

“Glad you could make it, baker buddy.” Sasha released her grip on him, proud of the reaction he’d given.

“Sasha, you scared the life out of me!” Marco exclaimed, a hand loosely curled at his heart.

“I aim to please.” She then turned to the room at large, taking in the varying degrees of chaos. “Pizza will be here soon, guys. I just guessed what you want so if you don’t like it, deal with it.”

Connie called her over from the couch, waving a controller at her. He had a blossoming bruise on his arm, one Jean could only assume came as a result of finally beating Ymir at Mario Kart. Sasha pranced away, more than happy to join in with Super Smash Bros.

“Are they always like this?” Marco asked, following Jean’s gaze to the battle of who gets to choose Kirby.

Jean nodded. “Unfortunately. I don’t know why they thought Super Smash Bros would be a safe alternative. It makes Mario Kart look tame in comparison with the way they play.”

Marco looked at him doubtfully but didn’t question him.

* * *

The pizza arrived to a round of cheers. Sasha paid the bemused delivery guy and took the warm boxes from him. Connie darted over to help her set the boxes down, and also get first choice on which pizza he wanted without interference or arguments from anyone else.

“Someone put on a Christmas movie,” Sasha instructed, gesturing vaguely to the pile of DVDs on the floor beside the television.

Armin knelt beside the pile and sifted through them methodically, placing possible options to one side. After a moment or two, he said, “How about Elf?”

“I’ve never seen that,” Marco said absentmindedly. The room silenced immediately. He looked up to see everyone staring at him, each with a look of horror on their face. “What?”

“Dude, that’s a criminal offence,” Jean said, breaking the silence. “How can you have not seen Elf? It’s a Christmas tradition.”

Marco shrugged, albeit self-consciously, fully aware of the attention directed towards him. “I just never got round to it.”

They unanimously decided on Elf, if only just to educate Marco in the proper ways of Christmas. They crowded round the couch; Sasha, Connie, Ymir, and Krista crammed onto the cushions in a tangle of limbs and the others sat in various positions on the floor. Jean ended up beside Marco, their shoulders brushing occasionally.

Jean tried to reign in his annoyance at his friends as they gave unnecessary commentary with each scene and squabbled over the last slices of pizza. They were much too comfortable with one another to just leave it politely in the thought that someone else aside from them may want it. Sasha usually called dibs on it, crushing any arguments with the fact that she was the host and she’d paid for the pizzas.

Just as Buddy bid farewell to his friends at the North Pole and hopped onto the broken piece of ice, Eren complained that they’d run out of popcorn. (Something Jean had learnt whilst living with him was that the boy could eat for hours and still be hungry; his appetite almost rivalled Sasha’s.)

Sasha took the empty popcorn bowl from Eren and shoved it at someone at random. This someone just happened to be Jean, who looked disgruntled by the sudden interruption.

“Jean, get more popcorn.”

She shushed him when he tried to protest, so he stood with a groan and walked quietly to the kitchen. He heard her say ‘Marco, go make sure he doesn’t burn the kitchen down’ and rolled his eyes. You set fire to _one_ pan of oil and suddenly you’re not allowed to cook unsupervised.

Marco trotted behind Jean. He hovered by the doorway as Jean pushed empty wrappers and bottles aside to make room for the bowl on the counter. He rummaged through Sasha’s well-stocked cupboards and quickly found another bag of popcorn. He tossed it into the microwave, pressed a few buttons, and then turned towards Marco.

Marco looked hesitant for a moment, his mouth parted slightly as if he wanted to say something. Jean crossed his arms over his chest, his head tilted to the side. “What?”

“Why don’t you like me?” Marco asked in a rushed voice.

“… What?”

Marco chewed at his lower lip, looking anywhere but at Jean. “You always look so angry at me and I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. You keep brushing me off and I just—” He broke of and sighed, his gaze lowering to the floor.

Jean moved towards him slowly, not wishing to startle him. “I—shit, Marco, I’m sorry. I just naturally look angry. It’s how my face falls, I guess. It’s, um, not you.”

Marco looked up, surprised, and then blushed furiously. He buried his head in his hands, his voice now becoming muffled. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry! I don’t—I didn’t mean that.”

Jean smirked, amused by other’s blatant discomfort. “Eh, don’t worry about it. I’m just not too good with the, uh, friends thing. Armin says I’m ‘too blunt and brash for the subtle nuances of new friendships’, as I believe he put it.”

Marco peeked at Jean through his fingers, a small smile curving his lips. “I’m sure we could work something out.” Jean nodded, glad to have at least smoothed things over with the baker. He was unsure of what to say next, having never really been too good with small talk, so an awkward silence passed between them. Jean shifted slightly, looking over to the microwave’s timer. Only a few seconds left.

He tensed as a light pressure pressed against his cheek. He turned to see Marco pulling away, looking pensive and kind of like a rabbit caught in headlights. Jean raised a hand to his cheek, feeling the remnants of the gentle kiss fade. His expression must have betrayed his feelings of utter confusion, as Marco merely gave a quiet, forced laugh and pointed upwards.

“Sorry. I… don’t know why I did that. I should’ve asked or something.”

“Ah. Mistletoe.” Jean looked back down and smiled to Marco, who still looked far too anxious for his liking. “Don’t look so scared, I’m not gonna bite.”

Marco gave a short nod, but jumped as the microwave pinged. “Oh, I—I’ll get that.” He hurried away, although looked substantially relieved.

Jean slumped as soon as Marco turned his back, leaning against the doorframe. _What the hell?_

“Are you guys making popcorn or making out?” A voice called from the living room. Jean scowled at Eren, even though the other couldn’t see. “Hurry up!”

“But if it’s the latter, take photos,” Sasha added.

Jean tilted his head back until it thudded against the wooden frame. “Why am I friends with these people?”

Marco laughed and handed him the bowl of steaming popcorn. “Because they’re fun. Come on, I want to see if Buddy finds his dad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are so many inside jokes in this oh my gosh


	4. Chapter 4

The sun was entirely too bright as its rays streaked through Jean’s window, disturbing his slumber. In a sleepy, somewhat delirious daze, he wondered if he could dim it a bit, or just turn it off entirely. The tired fog cleared from his mind and was soon replaced by a throbbing pain. He groaned and shrank back into his bed, pulling his covers above his head in an attempt to hide from the world. It didn’t last long as his throat was dry and his mouth tasted like a graveyard. His head was nothing strong coffee and decent painkillers couldn’t sort out, but summoning the effort to drag himself out of bed was something just far beyond his current abilities. At most he managed to poke his head out from his blanketed sanctuary; the alarm clock on his bedside table informed him it was almost noon but his attention was soon directed towards the glass of water innocently sitting beside it. Jean frowned. In his mildly tipsy state last night (he refused to call it drunkenness; he hadn’t had _that_ much to drink) he’d forgotten to even close his curtains, let alone think far enough ahead and place a glass of much needed water beside him. He could only assume Armin had left it for him and made a mental reminder to thank him when he finally ventured beyond the confines of his bedroom.

It wasn’t until ten minutes later that the water made it down Jean’s throat. He was parched and the simple liquid tasted like nectar sent from the gods. He felt readier to face the world after having adjusted to being awake, even if he would’ve rather stayed asleep for another day or two.

Armin was sat casually on their small couch when Jean walked past, watching some documentary absent-mindedly. He sat loosely curled up, his knees by his chest, and his hands clutching at a steaming mug. He looked over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps and offered Jean a smile that was all too knowing.

“Good morning,” he greeted as Jean set about procuring coffee.

“It’s still morning?” replied Jean, scratching at his neck. He was clad in the shirt he wore last night, his underwear, and only one sock. He hadn’t thought to take it off yet had been unable to find its matching partner.

“For another five minutes or so.” Armin sat up on his knees with his back to the television to get a better view of Jean. “How’re you feeling?”

“Someone’s attacking my head with a hammer but my room doesn’t smell like puke, so I’m good.”

A small grimace twisted Armin’s mouth. “Your room might not but the bathroom certainly does.”

Jean paled, then flushed. “Ah, sorry. I’ll clean it up later.”

“It’s fine. There’s nothing left to clean,” Armin said, attempting to smile again. “At least you didn’t miss the toilet this time.”

Jean had no intelligible reply to that so busied himself with finding a clean mug to pour his coffee into. After a long swallow of the drink that left his tongue and throat feeling scalded, he joined Armin. He’d changed to channel to some DIY show that they both feigned interest in but didn’t particularly care about. Jean hadn’t noticed Armin’s phone resting on the arm of the couch until it buzzed loudly. Armin unlocked it, smiled at whatever was on the screen, and quickly tapped a reply.

“Who’s that?” Jean asked insouciantly.

Armin hit send and locked his phone, placing it back in its position. “Eren.”

Jean cocked his head to the side, his brows drawn. During his quest to obtain caffeine, he hadn’t noticed his other roommate’s absence. “Where is he?”

“He stayed at Mikasa’s last night,” Armin explained. “They’re heading down to their parents’ house today. Eren’s complaining about Mikasa’s wild driving.”

“Oh… Well, tell him not to die or whatever.” Jean brought the mug of coffee to his lips, blowing gently against the surface. “It’d be too much hassle to find a new roommate.”

Armin gave a quiet laugh and nodded. “I’ll be sure to mention that to him.”

“You not going home yet?”

Armin shook his head, eyes focused on the television screen. “No, I’ve got an all-day shift at the bakery tomorrow. I’m going to my grandpa’s house on Christmas Eve.”

“Right.”

Armin glanced over to him tentatively, as if hesitant to say what was on him mind. “Are you going home?”

Jean gave a derisive snort, not intending the sound to be mean but unable to hold it back anyway. “Yeah, my dad sent me money for the train fare so I guess I’ll leave whenever. Maybe this evening, I dunno.”

“You gonna be okay?”

Jean looked genuinely surprised at the question. He didn’t often speak of his family, although he could see where misunderstandings would arise as he hardly ever spoke well of them. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. It’s not as if they don’t like me; they just haven’t grasped the concept that money doesn’t equal love. We’ve never really been that close.”

He said it in a blasé tone but it tended to plague his thoughts quite a bit. Armin managed to balance schoolwork, friendships, and working every hour he had left, and even Eren did odd manual labour jobs when he could. Jean felt somewhat guilty that he did nothing himself to contribute to the rent but merely handed over money set up in an account for him by his parents, an account that paid for most of his life. He only used the bare minimum, though; his pride never allowed him to take more.

He smirked to himself and commented, “I see more of their money than I see them.”

They lapsed into a slightly uncomfortable silence, neither really knowing how to respond to Jean’s situation. They watched onscreen as the overly enthusiastic host unveiled the grand house to the family, all of whom promptly burst into tears, and got to the presenting of various bedrooms until they spoke again.

“So…” Armin started, with the tone of someone who’d evidently been rehearsing the conversation mentally. “Marco?”

Jean stared at him, a bemused smile at his lips. “Polo?”

Armin sighed, his eyes closed, having evidently heard that joke far too many times at the bakery. “No, Marco Bodt.”

“Oh, that’s his last name?” Jean said casually, taking the final sip of his cool coffee.

Armin shifted his position, sitting cross-legged and facing Jean. “I was wondering if you wanted to clarify some of your drunken rambling from last night.”

Jean gaped, unable to form words for a moment. “First of all, it was a slightly tipsy discussion.”

Armin laughed disbelievingly. “As if. You were yelling loud enough for the whole city to hear and you wouldn’t let me get a word in edgeways. All I got was that something happened with Marco and then you decided to challenge Connie and Sasha to a drinking contest, which, really, is a dead giveaway that you have something you want to hide.”

Affronted, Jean crossed his arms over his chest and looked away in a manner that was decidedly not sulking. He didn’t need this from anyone, least of all Armin, least of all while he had a hangover. “Nothing happened with Marco.”

“You’re blushing.”

Jean’s hands instantly rose to his face, cupping his flushed cheeks. “Like that means anything.”

Armin smiled at him. Jean scowled. “You’re an open book. You know that, right?”

Jean, with a lack of any witty responses, opted for swatting Armin with a cushion. Armin anticipated the move and threw up an arm in defence.

“No, seriously,” he said, trying to calm his laughter, “what happened?”

Jean rolled his eyes. “Seriously, nothing.”

Armin leaned back against the arm of the couch, his gaze calculating. “If it was really nothing, then you wouldn’t have been in such a drunken tizzy last night.”

Jean knew from the start, ever since Armin opened his mouth again, that it would come to this. He was a fairly proficient liar, or at least he believed so, but Armin had always been so observant. He noticed everything.

“Okay, maybe he kissed me out of nowhere when we just happened to be standing under some mistletoe.” He gave a non-committal shrug, hoping the matter would be dropped there.

Armin stared at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. “No way. Sasha won the pool.”

“She— _what_?”

He exhaled a heavy, annoyed breath. “I’d hoped it would take about a month and a half but she was adamant you guys would only take three weeks. Then again, Connie thought it would only be five minutes. I told him you would be too stubborn for that.”

“What the—what were you even betting on?”

Armin seemed to catch up with his rambling, stuttering to a stop. He grinned sheepishly. “How long it would take for you and Marco to get together.”

“Me and Marco? What the fuck are you talking about?”

Armin froze, brows dipped in confusion and lips drawn in a pout. “You’re not having a gay freak-out, are you? I thought you were cool with it.”

“I—what? _No_. I just don’t even like the guy.”

“How is it possible to not like Marco?” Armin asked, aghast. “And then why did you kiss him if you don’t even like him?”

“I didn’t!” Jean exclaimed. “That’s the point! _He_ kissed _me_. I mean, we’d both had a bit to drink and it’d be good and all if we were in some cheesy movie, but we’re not. And you know what? He even fucking apologised afterwards. Who even does that?" He slumped back against the couch’s worn cushions. His fingers worked at his temples, rubbing away the persistent headache he had yet to rid.

When he looked at Armin again, he at least looked more sympathetic. He leaned over and rubbed soothing circles on Jean’s knee. He stood after a minute or two and Jean heard his footsteps retreat into the kitchen. A few moments later, a glass of water and a couple of tablets were handed to him. He sighed and obediently took them, nodding in thanks to the blonde. Armin smiled in return.

 

* * *

 

 

Honestly, he should’ve known better. He’d been urged by various friends more organised than himself to get his shopping done early and avoid the chaos of last minute shopping. He should’ve listened to them, but he just never got round to it. He’d been focused on finishing assignments before Christmas and before the New Year and time had simply slipped past him. Before he knew it, he was stranded amongst a crowd of vicious shoppers, pressed against other sufferers in their bid to reach their desired destinations. 

He took the backstreets home, not willing to risk getting stuck in more busy crowds. His boots crunched against dirtied snow that hadn’t yet been cleared off the pavement. He had his coat zipped up to his chin and his hood drawn over his head, attempting to stay warm and dry in the brisk winds and sporadic rain. His arms, laden with many bags, ached slightly, but it pleased him to know that he was not far from home. He was tired and it had been a long day, even though he'd only been awake a few hours. Soon enough he would be bundled up on the couch, maybe with a beer, maybe with Armin as a movie marathon partner. He’d decided he would leave the next day at the same time as Armin, simply to make things easier and so they wouldn’t forget to turn suitable appliances off.

His headphones vibrated lightly with the volume of his music and his head bobbed gently in time with the rhythm. The loudness of his songs cleared his mind and made him forget about his stuffed nose and throbbing head. He would regret it later, when the music and headphones were no longer there to distract his aching head, but for now it would do.

During the interval of one song and the next, he heard a far-off scuffling noise and muffled shouting. Spurred on by curiosity, he removed his headphones to more accurately identify the noise. It sounded as if someone was struggling and swearing vehemently at something or someone. His sense of heroicness was nowhere near as misplaced and amplified as Eren’s, but he could not be an innocent bystander when he could just as easily aid in the situation.

He jogged lightly, his breath condensing in the air in small puffs, and traced the sounds to a wide alleyway besides a small, timeworn building. The afternoon sun and dim light attached to the building did little to aid in the natural darkness of the alley. Jean could just about make out a figure and various misshapen objects towards the end of the lane. He shifted his bags to one hand and cautiously made his way towards the other.

The figure, a man, it seemed, was struggling with a large sack that appeared to be too heavy for him. Jean watched from a small distance as he heaved it to the ground and dragged it along. He passed under the light and his silhouette became illuminated.

“Marco,” Jean called.

Marco dropped the sack with a start, his head snapping up to meet the newcomer. He gave a breathy laugh as Jean approached and ran a hand through his hair.

“Gosh, Jean, you scared the life out of me. I didn’t hear you come down.”

A smirk pulled at Jean’s lips as he leant casually against the brick wall. “Don’t ‘gosh’ me. I heard you earlier. You know some pretty colourful insults.”

Marco’s mouth moved but no words came out. He then smiled and ducked his head, his freckles fading from the rising blush. “Ah, yeah. The delivery wasn’t cooperating.”

“Delivery?”

Marco motioned to the crate against a door in the wall. The door was ajar with a streak of light laying on the alley’s floor. Jean, having not noticed before, realised he’d been passing behind the back of Sasha’s bakery. “Our ingredient delivery came but we’re too busy at the moment for anyone else to help.”

Jean hesitated, part of his mind telling him he was supposed to dislike this man. Another part, probably the rational part, told him that he could dislike him and still help. It would be rude otherwise—not that he’d really cared before. “Need a hand?”

Marco beamed a grateful smile and nodded. “Yeah, that’d be great. Could you just grab the other end of this?”

Flour, sugar, and crates of eggs, Jean learnt, were far heavier than one would imagine. Between the two, they managed to navigate into the bakery’s kitchen, with Jean walking backwards precariously and Marco feeding him a stream of instructions. Once the final bag had been brought in, Marco closed the back door behind him and gestured for Jean to follow him further into to kitchen.

The kitchen could only be described as organised chaos, as flour and strawberries and spices littered the counters but the elegance in which Sasha moved illustrated her knowledge of exactly where everything was and what was going on.

She looked over as Marco approached. “You finished? I need you to get onto the gingerbread cupcakes. They aren’t gonna ice themselves, y’know.” Her grin faltered as she spotted Jean, but it quickly returned in full force. “Hey, Jean, you sneaking in through Marco’s back entrance? Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Marco laughed good-naturedly at her crude implication and Jean merely sent her his meanest glare. She shrugged it off, having become immune to it over the course of their friendship, and returned to sliding a couple of trays into the oven.

“Anyway, thanks for your help, Jean,” Marco said, tailing him as he walked back to the exit, the doorway mercifully free of mistletoe. “Oh, don’t forget your shopping bags.”

Jean, who’d already been reaching for them, only nodded in response.

“Right, well.” Marco brushed his hair away from his eyes, likely only to occupy his hands and pass a bit of time. “Have a good Christmas.”

Jean’s lips pulled at the edges in an imitation of a smile. “You too, Marco.”

As he continued his journey home, Jean realised just how much harder it was to dislike Marco when he was around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my goodness this is way more popular than i thought i would be. also it's about time i said thanks to people (because i'm really awful at replying to comments, sorry). so yeah. thank you!


	5. Chapter 5

Jean received the call two days after Christmas while on a train back into the city. His phone vibrated in his pocket, the buzzing barely audible over the general chatter of the cramped carriage. Many passengers were full of festive spirit and contently plump from eating too much Christmas food. Others sat or stood scowling as they were pressed awkwardly against other strangers to accommodate for the luggage brought on by those who had clearly received more presents than they could transport home. Jean fished the phone from his pocket, ignored the curious elderly lady beside him, and unlocked it to answer the call.  

“Eren? What’s up?”

He held his phone away from his ear with a flinch as a stream of rambling blared out. He turned the volume down and tried to speak over Eren while trying not to attract too much attention to himself.

“Calm down, I can’t hear you,” he hissed, head down and phone once again pressed to his ear.

“Sorry, I just—you should—you need to come back. Like, right now.”

Usually Jean would sneer at the other, or perhaps roll his eyes, and a snide comment about ordering him around would definitely be uttered. But Eren sounded different. He sounded urgent, not arrogant.

“I’m already on the train home. What’s wrong?”

“I couldn’t—I didn’t even see it happen, let alone help him. He should’ve—I just—”

Jean exhaled an irritated breath through his nose. Eren, much like Jean, was hard-headed and stubborn, but unlike Jean he found it hard to stay calm in an emergency. He tended to panic and act without thinking, often illogically helping others before helping himself. “Eren. Calm down. What’s wrong?”

Jean heard the other take a shaky breath. “It’s Armin. He was—we were going out for lunch and he—he just slipped. You know how icy it gets. And I heard it crack, his wrist. He screamed and I didn’t even notice it happen.”

Jean chewed idly at his lower lip, a habit he’d developed when he was younger. He nodded as Eren explained, even though he knew he couldn’t see his reaction. “Okay. Where are you? Is he okay?”

“I don’t know. We’re at the hospital but he passed out a bit before we got here. I don’t know what they’re doing. They said I’m not family so I couldn’t go with him.” Another pause punctuated his rambling; another breath conveyed his frustration. “I  _am_  his family.”

“I know,” Jean reassured. There was no point arguing with him; it would only be fruitless and a waste of time. “When did you get there?”

“What is it now? Half past? Maybe forty minutes? An hour? I’m not sure. I don’t know what they’re doing so I don’t know how long they’ll be. They said he’ll probably need surgery or something.”

Jean rubbed a hand over his face and threaded his fingers through his hair. “I can’t get there for over an hour. Is anyone else with you?”

“I called Mikasa before I called you. She said she’d come.”

Jean nodded. Mikasa would know how to calm Eren’s nerves and soothe his worries. When it came to Armin, there was nothing Eren wouldn’t do; sustaining a potentially serious injury whilst right beside him must’ve been a shock.

“Okay. Stay with her when she turns up. See if you can get any updates on what’s going on.”

“Right. Yeah, okay, she said she’d only be about five minutes. I’ll go look for her now.”

“And don’t forget to eat.”

Eren gave an affronted huff. “I’m not that dumb.”

Jean smirked. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Bye, Jean.”

Before Jean could reply, Eren hung up. He released a breathe he hadn’t realised he’d been holding and felt he shoulders relax, the tension seeping out of them. He knew Eren and Armin would most likely get back to the apartment before he did; Eren could’ve stayed at his parents until New Year’s but Armin often needed to return promptly for work, so Eren would join him and of course Mikasa would follow. Jean was briefly thankful for his roommates’ connection. He couldn’t imagine what may have happened to Armin had Eren not been there to assist him (although from the sound of things, perhaps Eren hadn’t been overly helpful).

He moved his duffel bag from one shoulder to the other and returned his phone to his pocket. The lady now looked intensely intrigued by the half-conversation she’d heard, her pale eyes wide and focused solely on Jean. Somewhat unnerved by her presence, Jean stared at the advertisements lining the top of the carriage’s walls. Most were filtered photographs of a person or animal staring desperately at the camera with a caption to donate to whichever charity it was for. While his gaze remained fixed on the photographs, his mind wandered. He willed the train to travel faster, for the people at the stops to get on and off more efficiently. He felt useless being so far away from where he was needed with no means to aid the situation. All he could do was wait.

Eventually the crowd in the carriage thinned and Jean had more room to breathe. He resisted the urge to pace and sat down once a seat became available. His leg bounced and his hands rested on his lap, curled into tense fists. He counted down the stops and watched absently as people hurried out and others filed in, taking the recently vacated seats.

Eren sent him updates periodically until he found Mikasa, who then took over the duty. Armin was awake. Armin was getting an x-ray taken. Armin’s wrist was not completely broken, but it seemed to be quite a severe fracture.

The sporadic information did little to quell Jean’s growing worries. Neither Eren nor Mikasa had yet been permitted to see Armin so neither could really say how he was. They could only relay medical information given to them by various nurses and doctors.

When Jean’s countdown reached zero, he swiftly stood and grabbed his bag, hefting it onto his right shoulder. He stood by the door and braced himself as the train slowed to a stop. Few people were waiting on the platform and they stood aside to allow Jean and the others exiting the train to pass. Jean moved deftly as he manoeuvred his way through the crowd of people at the station. He soon found himself on the street, pressed against the brick wall of the train station as others passed him in a hurry. He took a moment to get his bearings. His hand clenched and unclenched around the strap to his bag. He shifted it further up his shoulder and began the short walk to the hospital. He’d never been there before but had seen it plenty of times. It stood further on from the college campus but it was often visible from the taller buildings.

He texted Eren as he neared the building. He’d informed them of his arrival in the city and had let them know that he was only a mile or so away. He’d received no reply from either of the siblings, so therefore had no idea of their whereabouts. He groaned under his breath and put his phone away, switching his attention to the changing traffic lights. He knew it couldn’t be too hard to find them; they’d probably just fallen asleep in the visitor’s lounge or something.

Jean quickened his pace as he approached the entrance to the hospital. He paused for a minute or so to read the map placed by the main doors and then took off again. The visitor’s lounge was a fairly large room lined with spacious rows of chairs. Many people sat in a sombre silence while others chatted away or idly read various magazines.

He scanned the area. There was no sign of Mikasa or Eren.

A woman dressed in a pale blue uniform approached him. Her dark hair was pulled into a bun and she held a clipboard close to her chest. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes. Have you—were there two people in here earlier? A kind of angry-looking guy and an Asian girl in a red scarf.”

Her brows dipped. Jean couldn’t blame her; he was awful at describing people.

“Do you mean the one who came in with the blonde haired boy with a fractured wrist?”

Jean nodded. “Yes, him.”

She glanced away, through the glass doors that acted as the entrance to the lounge. “I think they went to his room. My colleague said he's ready to go home when he wakes up. And you’ll have to ask at the desk to find out what room he’s in,” she said in a pre-emptive answer to Jean’s question. She bowed her head and excused herself. Jean watched as she spoke to a nearby middle-aged man. His eyes were blank and his face sunken. He looked exhausted.

The receptionist barely glanced up at Jean as he stood before her. He gave his request and she questioned his relation to the patient. Jean said he lived with him and something in his expression must have conveyed he knew non-familial visitors had already been allowed in. She gave him the room number—312—and directions—take the elevator up to the third floor and turn right.

Eren and Mikasa’s heads snapped up as he entered room 312. He closed the door softly behind him and shuffled further into the room. It was bland and completely white. Armin lay motionless in the single bed, the lower part of his left arm encased in plaster. Eren and Mikasa sat on the chairs either side of him. Jean approached the foot of the bed.

“What happened?”

“He fell,” Mikasa answered.

Eren’s eyes flicked from Jean to Mikasa and then rested on Armin. “He slipped on the ice and landed badly. They did some surgery to correct the bone placement. He fractured the distance radius.”

“Distal radius,” Mikasa corrected softly.

“He’s sleeping off the meds they gave him. He has to take some home with him,” Eren continued.

Jean nodded slowly. Armin was fine, or at least he would be soon. If anything, he’d be more concerned that he made everyone worry so much.

“Not exactly the best Christmas present, huh?” he said, hoping to relieve some of the tension filling the room. A slight smile curved Mikasa’s lips but Eren ignored him. He felt as if he was intruding on something private, something personal. “What’s he going to do about work?”

Eren looked up at him, his eyes wide. “I hadn’t even thought about that.”

“Well, Sasha’s probably noticed something’s off, considering he didn’t come back from his lunch break. I can give her a call later,” Jean suggested, knowing the other two would rather stay with Armin.

Eren nodded and Mikasa gave a quiet ‘thank you’.

A few minutes passed in silence. Mikasa reached for Armin’s free hand, the one not encased in the cast, and held it. Eren scraped his chair closer to the bed. Jean leaned against the wall, his eyes unfocused.

“I should probably go,” Jean said to no one in particular. “I haven’t gone home yet.”

“Can you pick up some groceries?” Eren asked. “We didn’t get the chance to earlier.”

Jean said, “Yes,” and then silently ducked out of the room. The door shut with a quiet click. Nurses and other visitors passed by him in the hallway. He turned left and walked back towards the elevator, his phone already dialling. Knowing Sasha, she would've picked up that something was wrong; she knew Armin would never skip work without a good reason and certainly not without telling her. 

He waited as the elevator doors closed and the compartment began to descend. The phone dialled but no one answered. He tried again. No one answered. With the brief hope that Connie’s shifts still coincided with Armin’s, he called the other man.

“Hey, Jean.”

Jean sighed in relief. “Hey, Connie. You at work?”

“Yeah. Working over time since Armin hasn’t showed up.”

Jean considered asking him why he had answered his phone if he was so busy, but now was not the time to debate Connie’s questionable work ethics. “About that; Armin fell over at lunch and fractured his wrist.” Connie remained silent on the other end. “Connie?”

“Is he okay?”

The elevator doors opened. Jean stepped out and made his way to the main doors of the hospital.

“Yeah, I guess. He wasn’t awake when I saw him but he has a cast and I assume he’s on pain meds.”

“A cast? Shit, is he gonna be able to work?” Connie asked.

Jean barked a short laugh. “I don’t know, that’s why I’m calling. He’ll probably want to work but can he get some time off?”

“I dunno, Jean. I’ll have to ask Sasha. We’re pretty short staffed as it is but I guess we could call in a favour from Thomas.” A far-off crashing sounded from Jean’s phone and Connie let loose a string of curses. “Okay, I have to go. See you whenever.”

“Yeah, bye.” Jean slowly lowered the phone from his ear and stood still by the exit. He felt a yawn bubbling within him and covered his hand with his mouth. It had been a long day and it was far from over.

 

 

* * *

 

It was obvious when he got home that Armin and Eren had only arrived that morning. Their bags were left abandoned in the lounge and the apartment didn’t look as if it had been lived in for a few days. Jean dropped the bags of groceries off in the kitchen and then took his roommates’ bags to their respective rooms. He left them on the beds and set about unpacking his own bag. He hadn’t taken much with him to his parents’ house as he hadn’t intended on staying for very long. It had been a generally pleasant visit, if somewhat marred by the odd comment about his sexuality, education, or friends. Jean knew not to take it personally and tried not to let it bother him.

He checked his watch as he finished his chores of making the apartment inhabitable once again. He’d been given no indication of when the other would be home so simply flopped onto the couch and groaned. He’d been on his feet for most of the day and had been stressed for a good few hours. All he wanted to do was melt into the cushions and never come up again.

He gave himself a minute before he sat up and rubbed groggily at his eyes. He kicked his shoes off and turned the television on. When nothing interested him, he reached for his laptop from the coffee table. He’d hardly checked his messages since he left the city.

He checked his various social network profiles, most of which were spammed with messages wishing him a merry Christmas and all the best for the New Year. He sifted through the messages, gave replies when necessary, and whittled down his notifications until only a few remained.

_Friend request: Marco Bodt_

Jean’s cursor hovered over the notification. His eyes narrowed. With a shrug, he accepted the request. He supposed they were something akin to friends now, or at least Marco hadn’t been deterred by Jean’s nature yet.

He wasted the next half an hour scrolling through photographs of celebrities and grammatically incorrect cats. The television played some reality show, only to fill the silence that lingered in the apartment.

_Marco Bodt: Hi :)_

Jean raised his eyebrows at the chat box. He checked the time; there was at least an hour left until the bakery closed. Perhaps Marco had the day off.

_Jean Kirschtein: hey_

_Jean Kirschtein: on your phone at work?_

_Marco Bodt: I’m on my break :P_

_Jean Kirschtein: an hour before closing time? uh huh suuuure_

_Marco Bodt: Oh shush you_

Jean huffed a quiet laugh. Marco was probably watching cookies rise or something. He doubted there was much to bake in the final stretch of his shift.

_Marco Bodt: How’s Armin?_

_Jean Kirschtein: okay i think. he’s not home yet_

_Marco Bodt: Sasha said we can keep him covered at least until the New Year. She won’t let him work before that._

_Jean Kirschtein: that’s good_

_Marco Bodt: So how was your Christmas? :)_

Jean’s head fell back against the couch’s cushion. He sighed and turned back to the menial small talk.

_Jean Kirschtein: bearable but i didn’t expect much. how was yours?_

_Marco Bodt: Aww that’s too bad :(_

_Marco Bodt: I cooked dinner for my mom and she cried and my sisters came over with their kids. It was nice._

_Jean Kirschtein: urgh kids_

_Marco Bodt: What’s wrong with kids?? I love kids!_

_Jean Kirschtein: yeah well you would_

As Jean’s finger hit the enter key, he regretted it immediately. His tone could be somewhat off in real life; virtual conversations only made it worse.

_Marco Bodt: What does that mean? :/_

_Jean Kirschtein: nothing it just came out wrong. you’re unreasonably nice and i think it’s impossible for you to dislike anything_

_Marco Bodt: Well I don’t like almonds_

Jean gave a real laugh at that. His mind conjured up an image of Marco baking his almond pastries with his nose turned up at the vile nut-like seeds.

_Jean Kirschtein: what’s wrong with almonds?_

_Marco Bodt: What’s wrong with kids? :P_

_Jean Kirschtein: almonds are delicious. kids on the other hand…_

_Marco Bodt: Haha_

_Marco Bodt: I have to get back to work now. Give Armin my love :)_

_Jean Kirschtein: will do_

Jean watched as the chat box informed him that Marco Bodt was now offline and any messages sent will be delivered when he signs in again. He moved his laptop to the empty space beside him on the couch and leaned over to grab his phone. There was still no update from Eren. He fired off a quick message, asking about the situation. Within seconds he received a reply, much to his surprise. Mikasa was giving them a lift home and Eren was terrified. Jean smirked at the last comment. Mikasa drove in a way that was almost reckless; she was always in total control but it still felt fast and wild enough to make any passengers fear for their life. Jean asked how Armin was. He received a slightly blurred picture of the blonde asleep on Eren’s shoulder in reply.

Not wishing to think much anymore, he watched the television. The reality show had ended and now some cartoon Jean couldn’t remember the name or plot of was playing. By the time the adventurer and his dog confronted the villain, Jean heard the front door opening. He muted the television and hurried over to the hallway. Armin entered first and was closely followed by Eren. He shooed Eren away as he tried to help him in, saying that he could still walk.

“Hello, Jean,” Armin greeted with a tired smile.

Jean returned the smile easily. “Hey. You doing okay?”

“A bit hazy but yeah.”

Eren moved past them and set a small carrier bag Jean hadn’t noticed he was carrying on the kitchen counter.

“You gave us quite the fright,” Jean continued, following Eren.

Armin gave a small shrug and a sheepish grin. “I know. Sorry.”

The bag rustled as Eren dug through it and withdrew a thin, paper pamphlet. “How to care for a plaster cast,” he explained. “I’ve had enough of them so we don’t really need this.”

Armin had recounted a variety of Eren’s childhood exploits to Jean before, many of which ended up with him being grounded or in the hospital with a sprained muscle or broken bone. He was lucky his father was a doctor.

“Oh, and we’ve already been given permission to draw on the cast,” Eren said over his shoulder.

“Nothing explicit,” Armin added. “I have to work with this thing on.”

Eren held up a small, white box with a printed label on it. “Meds to be taken twice a day with meals.”

“Speaking of which,” Armin said, moving towards the cupboards. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

Jean caught his arm before he could do anything and pulled him back a bit. It was a little early for dinner, but he hadn’t eaten much that day and he doubted Eren had either. It was hardly fair to take advantage of Armin in this situation, though.

“Don’t even think about cooking for us right now,” he warned. “Go take a nap or watch TV or something. We’ll get you when dinner’s ready.”

Eren mouthed ‘we’ in confusion. Armin regarded them with a wary gaze but his resolve crumbled under Jean’s stern glare. He turned and left the kitchen, hoping it would still be in one piece when he returned. Neither Jean nor Eren were particularly reliable in culinary situations, but he was too exhausted to protest much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear there will be more marco soon. good things come to those who wait.
> 
> also i prefer the 'Bodt' and 'Kirschtein' spellings of their surnames. it just looks nicer.


	6. Chapter 6

Armin sat with the letter clutched in his hand, perched on the edge of the couch. His expression was blank, a portrait of impassiveness. Jean knew he was merely scheduling his features to hide his inner thoughts, hiding them from Jean as not to cause him further worry. He ran a hand through his hair once again, becoming more frustrated by the second.

“You can take it,” he repeated, for what seemed like the millionth time. “I don’t care when you pay it back.”

Armin looked up at him, his wide eyes following Jean's pacing body. He shook his head and looked back down to the letter. He’d received the bill for his surgery that morning and the argument was still ongoing.

“Jean, I can’t—”

“Bullshit!” Jean exclaimed, halting in his steps. He turned to Armin. He calmed himself; he didn’t want to appear angry. He was trying to help and he needed Armin to see that his offer was sincere. “You need money. I have money. It’s better than getting yourself into more debt with the bank.”

Armin shook his head, his grip wrinkling the paper. “I’ll be fine. I can manage.”

“How?” Jean asked, louder than he’d intended.

“I,” Armin started, but paused for a moment. “I’ll see what financial help I can get. They don’t need the first payment for a while. I have time.”

“To do what? Figure out where you’re gonna get over a thousand dollars from?”

Armin winced and his head dropped. Jean wished he could take the words back. He stepped forwards and crouched in front of Armin, forcing himself into his line of vision.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just—I don’t want to see you stress yourself out when I can help you.”

Armin shook his head again. His hair fell from behind his ear and draped alongside his face. “I appreciate your offer, Jean, I really do. But I don’t want to bother you and I don’t want to take advantage of you.” He gave Jean a pointed look, ceasing Jean's protests. “I’ll manage. I don’t know how, not yet, but I’ll be fine.”

“This is ridiculous.” Jean stood up and took a few steps back. He could feel his anger simmering but he had nothing to direct it towards; he wasn’t angry at Armin, just the circumstances and flawed system that had led to this situation.

Armin looked ready to argue his point again, shoulders squared and neck long, but a knock at the door interrupted them.

Jean pointed to the other, said, “This conversation isn’t over,” and went to answer the door.

In a surreal moment that echoed the evening of Sasha’s Christmas party, Jean opened the door to find Marco stood on the other side of the threshold, a box of food in his arms. Jean’s gaze lingered on the box as he stood aside to allow Marco in.

“Hi,” Marco greeted, an easy smile on his lips, blissfully unaware of the conversation he’d halted.

“Hey,” Jean replied. “You might want to keep your coat on. It’s probably as cold in here as it is outside.”

Marco frowned at him. “How come?”

“Our heating’s kinda busted.” He led him through the hallway and it occurred to him that Marco had probably never been here before. He wondered if he should ask how he knew where to find them, but he didn’t feel like making much conversation.

“I figured I’d stop by on my lunch break,” Marco explained as they walked into the living room. Armin stood and smiled to Marco. “I’ve been told cookies are great for feeling better.”

“You brought cookies?” Armin asked, his face alight with joy.

Marco nodded. “Double chocolate fudge. I squeezed as much chocolate and sugar into them as I could.” He opened the lid of the box. Jean and Armin peeked inside, where a small pile of still-warm cookies lay, simply asking to be eaten.

“They look and smell delicious,” Armin said, taking one from the box.

“Thank you,” Marco beamed, evidently proud of the effect his work had achieved. “How’re you feeling?”

Jean took this as his cue to give the two colleagues some privacy. He took the box and lid from Marco, and excused himself as he walked to the kitchen. He spent as much time as he could simply replacing the lid and putting the box on the side, and then loitered for as long as he could without arousing any suspicions. His mind was still on the medical bill and the help Armin refused to take. Jean could probably force the money onto Armin but he didn’t want to risk their friendship. He knew little about Armin’s life before he moved to the city, but he gathered that he’d come from a relatively poor background and only took what he desperately needed. The rest he could earn for himself. He didn’t take charity and he didn’t take advantage of generosity, much to Jean’s annoyance.

It wasn’t even as if he was just giving the money away; he would accept repayment if Armin wished to do so, no matter how long it took to pay back the full debt. He saw how hard Armin worked and how exhausted he seemed at the end of every day. He didn’t want to sit back and watch him stress himself to death when he could help.

With a sigh, he pushed himself away from the kitchen counter and made his way back to the lounge. They were sat on the couch; Armin was laughing at something Marco had said or done, and Marco was capping a Sharpie and slipping it back into his bag.

“I should get going. I need to be back at work soon and I haven’t actually eaten anything yet,” said Marco, hefting his bag’s strap onto his shoulder. He bid farewell to Armin, with the promise to replenish the cookies should he want any more, and allowed himself to be led to the door by Jean.

They stood in the hallway, neither reaching to open the door. Marco looked slightly pensive and his eyes kept darting about.

“If want to ask something, just ask,” Jean said.

“O-oh.” Marco cleared his throat and gave Jean a sheepish glance. “Sorry, I was just wondering if you’re okay. You look a little, uh, angry.”

“That’s just how my face falls,” Jean replied, brushing the concern off.

Marco’s brows furrowed. Jean realised he frowned a lot when they were together. “Seriously, what’s wrong?”

Jean slipped his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “You don’t need me bitching about my problems to you.”

Marco’s lips lifted in a half-smile. “I don’t mind. I like being a soundboard when people need to rant.”

Jean raised his eyebrows in disbelief and then shook his head, unable to stop a small smile forming. “Seriously? You like people bitching at you?”

Marco rolled his eyes and said, “When it helps them, yeah.”

“You’re unbelievable. You need to have more flaws.”

Marco’s expression turned into one of bemusement and he regarded Jean with a strange look, something he can’t identify in his eyes. “I have flaws. You just haven’t found them.”

“Is that an invitation?” Jean asked before his brain-to-mouth filter kicked in.

But Marco only laughed and told him to hold out his arm. Jean, confused by the bizarre request, complied to see what would happen. Marco pulled the Sharpie back out from his bag and pushed up Jean’s sleeve. Jean felt the tip of the pen write against his skin in a ticklish line but couldn’t decipher what had been written. When Marco finished, he capped the pen and tugged the sleeve back down.

Jean immediately pulled it back up again.

Scribbled hastily in dark blue ink was a string of numbers. Jean looked to Marco, an amused smirk playing at his lips. “Really? I have my phone in my pocket, you could’ve just told me.”

Marco shrugged, his cheeks darkened with a blush. “I like being old-fashioned.”

Jean surprised himself by laughing and Marco joined him.

“I really do need to go,” he said, almost apologetically.

“Yeah,” Jean replied, hoping it sounded less dumb to Marco than it did to him. He opened the door for Marco. “Thanks for the cookies.”

“You’re welcome,” Marco said, and then walked away.

Jean closed the door behind him but didn’t move away from it. It wasn’t until Armin called to him to ask if he was okay that he even realised he was still in the hallway.

He joined Armin on the couch. Armin had retrieved the cookies from the kitchen and piled them onto a plate that now sat on the coffee table. Jean leaned forwards and grabbed one. He bit into it eagerly, savouring the delicious chocolaty taste that followed.

“Pretty good, huh?” Armin said.

Jean nodded, wiping at some crumbs at the corner of his mouth. “I could live off that man’s cookies, and don’t you dare turn that into an innuendo.”

Armin snorted. He fell silent for a moment, and when Jean glanced over to him, he noticed his eyes were fixed on his still-uncovered arm. He pulled his sleeve back down and tried to ignore Armin’s spreading grin.

“I wondered why you were taking so long,” he teased.

Jean glared at him, but there was no animosity in the gesture. “Shut up.”

Armin laughed again, quieter this time, and held out his arm for Jean to see. His cast was bright yellow and had various scribbles all over it, most of them from Eren. Eren had taken to sitting by Armin in the evenings and pulling his arm into his lap so he could doodle on the cast. Amongst the signatures and ‘Get well soon!’s, Jean saw what Armin intended him to see. Marco had written his name in his loopy script, accompanied by a rather goofy-looking smiley face.

“If you’re still looking for his flaws, he’s a crappy artist.”

Jean pushed playfully at Armin’s shoulder. “Eavesdropper.”

“You had the conversation literally ten feet away; it would’ve been hard _not_ to overhear.”

Instead of replying with one of his many witty retorts, Jean took another bite of the cookie.

 

* * *

 

When Eren returned from wherever he’d been before—Jean didn’t care enough to ask—something was evidently amiss but no one addressed the situation. Jean thought that perhaps he was reading the atmosphere incorrectly, or maybe it just wasn’t any of his business. Either way, he decided to follow the others’ lead and simply not bring it up.

Eren flopped onto the couch beside Armin and arched his back, his hand covering a large yawn. He blinked sleepily around the room and then focused on the two cookies left on plate. Armin laughed at Eren’s reaction and moved aside as his friend dove forwards to get one.

“You can have both; we saved them for you,” Armin said, reaching over to brush some crumbs from Eren’s cheek.

“Where did you get these?” Eren asked, his mouth full of half-eaten cookie. “They’re delicious.”

“Marco brought them over. There were about twelve or so before.”

Eren looked at them both, surprised. “Greedy,” he grumbled.

Jean huffs an amused breath through his nose. “You should’ve got home earlier.”

He stuck his tongue out at Jean, who responded in kind, and stood up to shed his damp coat. “Armin, you need anything?”

“No, thanks,” Armin politely declined, as he’d been doing a lot recently. There was little he allowed his roommates to do for him beyond place his medication in a bowl for easier access (apparently they didn’t consider people with only one usable hand when designing the packaging) and helping wrap up his cast before he showered. He was adamant about doing everything else on his own, but had been immediately shot down by both Jean and Eren when he offhandedly mentioned returning to work early. Regardless of his injury, he deserved the time off.

Eren left to hang up his coat and Jean decided to retrieve his laptop from his room.

He heard footsteps echoing his but assumed they were just going in the same direction as him. When he reached his room and walked inside, and the footsteps were still there, he turned to question the other.

Eren closed Jean’s door behind him. He gripped the handle tightly, his knuckles paling.

“What do you want?” Jean asked, his tone one of boredom and preconceived irritation.

“We don’t need your pity,” Eren said, his back still to Jean.

Jean, taken aback by the statement, repeated, “What?”

Eren turned to him, his shoulders firmly set and eyes narrowed. “We don’t need your money or your pity.”

“We?” Jean assumed Armin had discussed the matter with Eren earlier that day; there was no way he could’ve known about the offer otherwise.

“Me and Armin.”

Jean crossed his arms, his hips cocked slightly to the side. “It’s Armin’s problem, not yours. If he wants to take the money, it’s his choice. It’s not pity.”

Eren’s feet shuffled, as if he wanted to take a step forwards but held himself back. “If it’s Armin’s problem, then it’s mine too.”

“Which also makes it mine since I live with both of you.” Jean had grown tired of this argument now, had grown tired of his offer being torn to shreds as if he’d mortally offended someone. “It’s my parents’ money and I barely touch it. I’d rather see it put to good use.”

Eren’s fist clenched by his side and Jean was prepared to dodge should he choose to swing. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Surprisingly, Eren took the higher moral ground and turned on his heel, slamming Jean’s door unnecessarily loudly as he left. Jean got the message. It was hard to give each other space in an apartment as small as theirs, especially during times like these when the lapse between holidays meant everyone usually stayed inside, but he would stay away for now. He didn’t need to or want to deal with this right now.

He sat at his desk and sank into his office chair. He opened his laptop and as he waited for it to start up, he plucked his phone from his pocket. He turned it in his hand, his lips pursed in thought. With a few taps, he brought up a blank message screen.

_To: Marco  
testing testing one two three_

He slid hid headphones over his ears, effectively blocking out the rest of the world. He had little of use to accomplish online, so he instead turned to dumb YouTube videos, ranging from dogs supposedly professing their love for their owners to angry gamers recording themselves battling infuriating boss levels.

Half an hour or so later, he noticed his phone’s screen had lit up.

 _From Marco:_  
Hello to you too!  
[19:32]  
Or not.  
[20:06]

Jean swore under his breath and fumbled in his reply.

_To Marco:  
sorry, i’m here. i was just ignoring the world_

_From Marco:  
What did the world do to deserve that?_

Jean was somewhat impressed by the speed at which Marco replied.

 _To Marco:_  
get pissed off at me when i tried to be nice  
there’s an obvious solution, really. i should stop trying to be nice

He looked up as the video came to the end and the audio dimmed to silence. He selected another video at random, not even sparing a glance to its title.

_From Marco:  
That’s not how it works :P_

_To Marco:  
shhh yes it is_

_From Marco:  
If you say so. What happened??_

_To Marco:  
pissed eren off. nothing new_

_From Marco:  
Try making up with him? It’s Christmas, after all._

Jean scrunched his nose in distaste.

_To Marco:  
ew_

_From Marco:  
Surely there’s something the both of you can relate to._

Jean slid further down his chair and made an entirely undignified whining noise.

_To Marco:  
picture me groaning and making an ‘i don’t wanna’ noise_

_From Marco:  
This is how you thank me for my glorious advice? Jean, I’m heartbroken._

_To Marco:  
i tend to have that effect on people_

He smirked to himself at that.

While waiting for Marco’s reply, Jean checked his email and social network accounts, swivelling absently on the chair.

He flinched as a hand grabbed his shoulder.

He pulled his headphones down and spun his chair around, his breath still caught in his throat. He exhaled loudly in relief as he saw Armin, stood wide-eyed with a bowl of pasta in his hand.

“Sorry, I did knock and call you,” he explained, offering the food to Jean.

Jean took it with a grateful nod and placed it on his desk. “Thanks, and yeah, I didn’t hear you.”

Armin hesitated, even though Jean would’ve liked the conversation to be over. He knew Armin would be playing peacemaker again; he was trying to lessen the job by simply staying out of the way.

“Try not to get too wound up by Eren,” he said softly. “He means well but pride is a vulnerable thing.”

“I’m not getting wound up,” Jean defended, though it even sounded weak to his own ears.

Armin gave him a smile that clearly said ‘if you say so’ and exited the room quietly.

 

* * *

 

The clattering wouldn’t stop. The banging wouldn’t stop. The obnoxiously loud footsteps that told him Eren was awake at some ungodly hour and had forgotten normal people like to sleep until midday wouldn’t stop.

Jean pulled his covers further above his head, as if shielding himself from the noise and light would prevent him from being awake. He was not a morning person. Then again, neither was Eren. Eren just had the willpower to get up early even though his senses were dulled and his steps were clumsy.

Wrapped in his blanket cocoon, Jean willed himself back to sleep.

After what he gathered to be about five minutes, he poked his head out from the pile of blankets and pillows. Both his alarm clock and the frosty air against his cheeks told him no sane person should be awake at this hour, and yet here he was.

He spent another five minutes prepping himself for the arduous journey ahead. With planned movements and hasty actions, he grabbed his abandoned sweater from the floor and shoved it on before the cold got to his bare skin. He pulled fluffy socks over his frozen feet and padded into the living room.

Eren sat on the couch with running shoes in his lap, muttering to himself as he untangled the shoelaces.

“What the fuck are you doing?” is what Jean meant to say. It came out noticeably more slurred and with less venom than he would’ve liked.

Eren glared up at him, shadows under his eyes. “Going for a run.”

Jean stared at him dumbly. All the evidence had pointed to this—the sportswear and the shoes—but he could not quite comprehend it. “Why?”

Eren shrugged. “I want to.”

“I’m going with you,” Jean said, his brain not yet caught up with his mouth. “It’s too icy. You’ll probably get lost or slip and die on your own.”

Eren scowled at him. “I already checked; the streets are mostly clear. And I know my route.”

Jean waved him off. “I don’t care. I’m going with you. Wait here.”

After a quick run to the bathroom to splash water on his face and wake himself up, Jean changed into the sportswear that had been long-since abandoned at the back of his wardrobe. He was surprised to see that Eren had complied with his demand. He’d almost expected him to leave without him, just to be spiteful.

They didn’t speak as they wrote a note for Armin to explain their absence should he wake up before they returned. They didn’t speak as the left the apartment building, stretching their muscles. They didn’t speak as they set off.

Jean allowed Eren to lead. After all, this was his route; Jean was just tagging along. Eren started at a faster pace than he would’ve set for himself, but he didn’t want to complain. He wouldn’t give Eren the satisfaction. He ran a few steps behind him, adamant to keep up.

As they wound round the streets, Jean edged further and further ahead, challenging Eren’s obnoxiously fast pace. He saw Eren look at him from the corner of his eye. With a smirk, he sprinted suddenly, leaving Eren in his wake. It didn’t take long for Eren to catch up. They ran side by side, their feet slapping against the pavement loudly. Neither wanted to be the first to give in; neither wanted to admit defeat and slow down.

They eventually did and relaxed back to the previous pace.

Jean hadn’t been up this early in months, and not voluntarily in even longer, perhaps years. While he despised every aspect of mornings, he could see why they would be enjoyed. At this early hour, hardly anyone was about. The streets were empty, the shops were closed. It seemed as if time itself had paused to rest. There was something calming about a sleepless city coming to a halt.

They ran until sunrise and further still. Jean recognised most of the places they passed but hadn’t particularly paid attention to their route. He gathered they were coming to the end once he realised Eren was leading them down the backstreets he usually took to get home. With this in mind, he started to slow down, not seeing the need to rush now the end was practically in sight.

Eren glanced over his shoulder and raised his brows. Jean made a motion for him to go on ahead; he’d be fine.

Eren nodded and sprinted off. He was always rushing into things, eager and thoughtless.

Jean wiped a hand across his forehead, smearing the beads of sweat that had gathered. He rounded the corner and saw the bakery up ahead. Its lights were dimmed but it was definitely inhabited.

With curiosity, Jean jogged over to the back door. It was propped open.

He knocked and wandered inside. He rarely visited before lunch, most often towards the end of Armin’s shift, sometimes Connie’s if they’d made plans to hang out.

A tune to a song Jean had heard a million times before played from tinny radio speakers and a soft voice hummed along with it. Marco stood with his back to him, hunched over the countertop, cutting gingerbread men from a wide, thinly-spread dough.

“Marco?”

The man in question glanced up and then whirled around. He smiled as he saw Jean and beckoned him further inside. “Hey, I didn’t hear you come in.”

Jean gestured to the open door. “I saw the light on and the door was open.”

Marco nodded. “Yeah, it gets pretty hot and stuffy in here. I usually close it around opening time, though.”

“Wait,” Jean drawled, his mind slowly piecing things together. “Are you in here every morning?”

“Mhmm. Six o’clock every day, more or less. I cover mornings and get the day’s food sorted. Sasha stays late and does the evening’s prep for the next day,” he explained. Jean stared at him, horrified. “What?”

Jean shook his head in disbelief. “You mean you willingly get up before the sun _every day_?”

Marco raised a shoulder in a half-shrug and ducked his head. He turned back to the dough, cutting out the final few shapes. “I’m a morning person.”

Jean laughed under his breath, not in the least bit surprised by this revelation.

“You’re up early too,” Marco pointed out.

Jean nodded, leaning against the counter. “Brilliant deduction. What gave it away?”

“Well, it was mostly the fact that you so kindly decided to stink up my kitchen with your sweatiness.”

Jean, ever so mature, flipped him off. Marco’s teasing grin widened in response.

“My presence is a blessing, you should be honoured.” He paused briefly and then continued, “I was with Eren, but apparently Eren is a being of boundless energy so he ran off without me.”

Marco lined the neatly cut gingerbread men on a tray, presumably to be put into the oven at a later time. “So things have smoothed over, then?”

Jean gave a self-depreciating laugh. “As if. Things never smooth over between us. Just sometimes we’re not at each other’s throat.”

As Marco manoeuvred his way about the kitchen, sprinkling icing onto rolls and prodding cakes to check they were cooked through, Jean announced his departure. He had no idea what the time was but he desperately needed a shower and to sleep until well past noon.

“Wait a minute!” Marco called, rushing about. He trotted over to Jean, who was waiting by the door. He held out one of the bakery’s take away boxes. Jean took it cautiously and opened the lid. His gaze flickered from Marco to the honey croissants inside, a smile curling his lips. “Breakfast, fresh from the oven.”

“Are you trying to seduce me with baked goods?”  _Because it's probably working_ , Jean added mentally.

Marco smiled innocently. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> school sucks, let's write fic instead


	7. Chapter 7

Jean stumbled into consciousness in the early hours of the morning, vaguely aware of an irritating noise emanating from the foot of his bed. He sat up with his shoulders hunched, rubbing at his eyes groggily. After a few moments of rummaging around blankets and duvets, he found his phone, vibrating with a call.

“What?” Jean answered, not caring how scratchy his voice was or how pissed off he sounded.

“Good morning, sunshine!” the caller chimed back at him.

Jean groaned and fell backwards into his pillows. “Connie, what the fuck?

“I know, I know, it’s not even noon yet. How dare I interrupt your beauty sleep. Now,” he said, his voice taking on a more commanding tone, or at least as commanding as Connie could manage, “get your skinny ass dressed and meet me at the coffee shop near Smith’s Music Store.”

Jean ran a hand through his hair, loosening the tangles within the strands. “Why? And why not just at the bakery?” He then paused, frowned, and asked, “Wait, aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“Nah,” replied Connie. “Not for another half hour, so hurry up.”

He then hung up, leaving Jean wondering what exactly the time was. He clicked back to his phone’s home screen and sighed. It wasn’t even eight ‘o clock and yet here he was, awake and mostly functioning.

He bumbled about the bathroom, brushing his teeth and combing his hair into place, and hopped about his room as he struggled to pull his jeans on. Once clothed and suitably presentable for the outside world, he grabbed his jacket and keys and made a hasty exit from the apartment. He’d known Connie longer than anyone else in their friend group—after all, it’d been Connie who’d introduced him to Armin and ended up helping him find a place to live—and even though they’d grown apart somewhat, he could tell when Connie was being annoying just for fun and when he had an ulterior motive. He doubted it would be anything serious, but Jean wanted to make sure they had enough time to talk over it. Besides, he could probably blag a free coffee out of him while he was there.

The coffee shop was one of the quirkier ones in the city. It sat nestled between an independent music store and an empty building that once housed a tiny, Italian restaurant. A bell was placed above the door and tinkled as Jean entered. Mismatched furniture was dotted about everywhere, from plush, leather armchairs to cosy, floral loveseats, and there was hardly enough room behind the counter for the baristas to move. Classical music played soothingly over tinny speakers, drowned out slightly by the murmur of chatter from the customers.

Connie waved him over from his seat by the far wall. He pushed forwards a mug of steaming coffee, which Jean immediately took and drank from. It was far too hot for consumption and scalded his tongue, but he didn’t care. The winds were bitter outside and frost still lined every window and pavement. He’d even managed to wander through some puddles left over from last night’s rain in his tiredness. His cheeks had donned a bright blush from the cold and his fingers were regaining some life from the warm cup.

“Now that I’ve reunited you with your long-lost, caffeinated love,” Connie started, eyeing Jean in amusement, “do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Technically you already did,” Jean shot back at him, cradling his coffee to his chest.

Connie rolled his eyes. “Someone’s grumpy this morning.”

“That would be because someone woke me up at half past fucking seven.”

Connie shrugged at grinned. “Well, you’re here, so I’ll assume you’re willing to voice your thoughts, not that you ever really hold back.”

Jean tilted his head, tired eyes narrowed. “Thoughts on what?”

“Uh, well.” Connie scratched at his closely-shaven head, his eyes lowering to focus on his empty cup. “I want to ask Sasha out.”

Jean gaped. Connie looked up at him expectantly, evidently nervous.

Jean blinked once. Twice. He cleared his throat and said, “You mean you haven’t already?”

Connie spluttered, his eyes wide. “Wait, what?”

Jean sat still, mouth hung open, and then laughed. He placed his coffee on the table between them for fear that he might spill it. He clutched at his stomach and managed to stop long enough to say, “Dude, I thought you’d asked her ages ago.”

Connie’s mouth moved but no words emerged. After a few seconds, he settled on replying with, “Seriously? But—what? Why?”

Jean steadied his breathing and shook his head in disbelief. “You’re hardly seen apart and I know you’re both very,” he gestured in a vaguely circular motion, trying to gather the right phrasing, “touchy-feely, but you were always, like… I don’t know, more so with each other. I just kind of assumed.”

Connie laughed breathlessly and slumped against his chair, tension relieved from his shoulders. “Okay, yeah… no. We’re not together. I think.” He buried his face in his hands, ears bright red.

Jean observed the sight for a moment and resisted the urge to take a photo. “So, what was your question?”

“Should I ask her?” was Connie’s muffled reply.

“Are you asking for my permission or something? I’m pretty sure you’d have to go to her dad for something like that.”

Connie emerged from the refuge of his palms and shook his head. “No, I wanna know if it’s a good idea, and it’s her dad that’s the problem.”

“I thought he liked you.”

Connie bit at his lower lip, his shoulders raising faintly in a small shrug. “I think he does, but he owns the bakery. I don’t want to get Sasha in trouble with him for,” he raised his hands to mime quotation marks, “’conducting an intimate relationship with an employee’.”

“She can get in trouble for that?” Jean asked, torn between confusion and surprise.

Connie nodded. “Yeah, I looked it up in the employee manual. I don’t want to put her in a position that means she breaks her own dad’s rules.”

Jean sighed and leaned forwards. “You and I both know Sasha’s never been one for rules. She’s an unconventional girl.”

That brought a dumb smile to Connie’s lips and he agreed, “Yeah, she really is.” He glanced at his watch, his features drawn into a thoughtful expression. “I need to go soon. You free this afternoon?”

Jean nodded. He’d specifically made sure to keep his schedule free for his time out of classes, so he could eat, drink, and sleep to his heart’s content.

“Great. Can you swing by the bakery at about three or half-three? Sasha needs help setting up for the New Year’s party.”

Jean told him he’d be there, but not without complaining about being drawn into the task. He remembered agreeing to go to Sasha’s party some time ago, but had lost track of the days since Christmas. He doubted he would’ve realised it was New Year’s Eve if Connie hadn’t brought it up.

* * *

 

Jean turned the page of his book, his eyes only glancing over the words, not really taking them in. The book had been recommended to him by a friend in his history class but it was doing a better job at putting him to sleep than igniting his interest. She’d looked so eager when she’d leant it to him so he at least wanted to finish it before he gave it back.

His phone charmed with an alarm as it reached three o’clock. Jean grabbed for it blindly, his eyes still on the book, and silenced the alarm. He bookmarked his page and carefully set the book down, making sure not to crease the spine or any of the pages. He’d made that mistake once with one of Armin’s book; he had yet to make it again.

He stood from the couch, his arms raised and back arched. There was something distinctly satisfying about not doing anything productive all day, even if his muscles ended up cramped from his lack of movement. He stretched the kinks from his shoulders and clicked his vertebrae until they popped.

He received a message while he zipped his jacket and shoved a patterned, woollen hat on his head, no doubt from one of the bakery crew reminding him of his promise to help. He pocketed his phone without sparing a glance at the message and called to the others in the apartment as he left.

He walked briskly to the bakery. The weather hadn’t improved since the morning and he could still see his breath in front of him. With his hands buried in his pockets and head bowed against the wind, he arrived at the bakery in record time, relishing the warmth it brought.

“Nice of you to join us, Jean,” Sasha called from the opposite side of the room, where she and Connie were moving a table.

Jean surveyed the room. The chairs had been moved to another location and the rectangular tables lined the walls, most likely to hold the buffet. A box of decorations had been dumped in the middle of the room and a music system lay disconnected by the counter. The display cabinets, that were usually full with assortments of delicacies, were empty.

“Why exactly am I helping?” Jean asked to no one in particular. “I don’t even work here.”

“Well, we can hardly ask Armin to help,” Marco replied, startling Jean. He’d strolled out of the kitchen to hear Jean’s complaint, shirt sleeves turned up and cheeks flushed from the heat of the ovens.

“Besides,” Sasha continued, “think of it as repayment for all the free food you get.” She sent a pointed look to Marco, whose flush only deepened. He smiled, though, and Jean found himself smirking in reply.

“The drizzle cake is cooling down and most of the leftovers from today are in the refrigerator,” Marco said in an obvious change of topic. “You sure we don’t need anything else?”

Sasha shook her head, hair falling from behind her ears. “Nah, we’ll manage. There’s more than usual left over since we closed up early.” She kicked at the box of decorations and sent it skidding across the floor. It slowed to a stop just in front of Jean. He looked down at it and then raised his gaze questioningly to Sasha. “Connie and I are gonna clean up. You two can sort out decorations.”

Jean eyed the box suspiciously, wary of its contents. The last time he’d been roped into something like this, he’d had glitter in his hair for a month.

Marco walked over and picked up the box, sending Jean a bright smile. “Better get started, huh?”

Jean nodded and followed him as he set the box on the counter. He rummaged through its contents and brought out streamers and banners, all of which were incredibly cheesy, but he hadn’t expected much else.

Marco held up one of the banners. It was bright yellow and said ‘Happy New Year!’ proceeded by numerous crossed out dates, ranging from 2008 to just last year. “Are they keeping this for sentimental reasons or something?”

Jean shrugged. “I gave up questioning this place a while ago.”

“Do you think we should hang it up by the entrance or in the middle of the room?”

A sigh passed Jean’s lips as he leant against the counter. “I have no preference. It’ll look just as tacky anywhere.”

Marco paused and then inclined his head in agreement. “Hey, Sasha,” he called, “where’s the ladder?”

“Out back,” she replied, swatting Connie with a mop. Connie whined and retaliated in kind, only to slip on the wet floor and topple over.

“You mind helping me get it?” Marco asked, in a quieter tone to Jean. He didn’t wait for a reply, evidently assuming Jean would be willing to lend him a hand, and led him beyond the counter and through the kitchen.

Various plates were scattered about, some covered in tin foil, others in cling film. There were delicate cupcakes and large, lumpy muffins, pies with slices missing, intricately decorated, layered cakes, and buns and biscuits and pastries of many varieties. Jean salivated just from the sight of them.

“Do you always get this many leftovers?” he asked. “I’d be obese forever if I worked here.”

Marco chuckled but shook his head. “No, we just made sure to bake a lot to last us through tonight. Usually we wrap up the leftovers so I can drop them off at the homeless shelter after work.”

Jean started at him, dumbfounded. He shortly came to his senses and shook his head in exasperation. “Of course you do.”

Marco smiled bemusedly. “Uh, I think the ladder’s in the alley.”

He pushed through the back door and gestured for Jean to follow. The retrieved the ladder and navigated it carefully through the kitchen, narrowly avoid many disastrous mishaps.

Connie and Sasha seemed to have settled their mopping debacle and were now wiping tables, only occasionally squirting each other with the spray bottles.

Within an hour, the walls were decorated with glistening banners and sparkling tinsel, no doubt left over from Christmas. Jean held tightly onto the ladder as Marco pinned the final banner to the ceiling, giving Jean a rather admirable view. He heard a snicker to his right and flipped Connie off.

“Is it straight?” Marco asked.

It took Jean a moment to realise he was referring to the banner, but before he could reply Connie cut in with, “It’s the only thing in here that is.”

Marco climbed down the ladder rung by rung and skipped the last few steps, jumping down nimbly and bouncing on his toes. He grinned and tilted his head back, reviewing their work. He gave a satisfied nod and turned to Jean.

Jean’s lips pulled in a lazy half-smile. He reached out and pulled a few tinsel strands from Marco’s hair. “You’re looking a bit festive.”

Marco raised a hand to comb through his hair. “You should’ve seen me in the kitchen at Christmas. I’ve never seen so much red and green icing in my life. I’ll be glad when everything I make doesn’t have cinnamon in it.”

Jean pursed his lips in a mock-pout. “But I like cinnamon.”

Marco pushed at his shoulder playfully. “I’ll be sure to make you some more snickerdoodles soon, then.”

“Oh, he’d love to have your snickerdoodles,” Connie commented, wiggling his eyebrows obscenely. Sasha giggled by his side and made an explicit gesture behind Marco’s back. Jean rolled his eyes at them; it was a wonder they even managed to function as normal human beings with all their immaturity.

“Are we done here?” he asked loudly, attempting to drown out the other two.

Sasha placed her hands on her hips and swivelled on the spot. “Almost. We just need to put the table cloths down, put the food out, and hook up the music, but Connie and I can sort that.”

“Don’t tell me Connie’s in charge of the music again,” Jean groaned. Everyone still remembered the High School Musical fiasco from last year.

“He’s promised to be good this time,” she replied.  Connie grinned and nodded behind her.

Jean rolled his eyes and continued half-heartedly protesting. Marco stepped around Jean and wandered into the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later, his coat drawn tightly around him and bag slung over one shoulder. He twirled a set of keys around his index finger and watched the scene unfold before him. It had escalated into a debate about Connie’s questionable music choices and Jean’s rather hipster tastes.

“I’m going to head home,” he announced, briefly interrupting the arguing duo. “Anyone need a lift?”

Jean glanced over his shoulder, out the window. The rain had started up again.

“Yeah,” Jean replied, stepping away from Connie, “I might as well.”

He dressed himself in his extra layers and pulled his hat over his head. Marco waited for him by the front door, hand hovering over the handle. They stepped out into the street, calling their farewells to Connie and Sasha, and scampered along the path until Marco stopped in front of a car. It was small but sleek; a shiny, navy number with a leather interior.

Jean slid easily into the passenger seat and shivered. Marco sat a little more clumsily beside him and turned to drop his bag onto the back seat.

“Feel free to direct me,” he said as he started the car and pulled away. “And wake me up if I fall asleep.”

He gave Jean a playful smile, but Jean could see the dark circles beneath his eyes, leaving him unsure as to if that was a joke. “How long have you been up?”

Marco gave a delayed response, doing the quick arithmetic in his head. “About eleven hours. I’m going to take a nap when I get home so I don’t fall asleep before midnight.”

“You going to Sasha’s?” Jean asked. He’d assumed the baker would be, since he worked there and had agreed to help out, but he may have opted to spend time with family or other friends, and simply helped out of generosity.

Marco nodded. “Yeah. It makes a change to the usual. One of my sisters usually has a little gathering. Last year the kids almost made it to midnight but we set the clocks back a couple of hours and just pretended so we could send them to bed.”

Jean smiled and commented, “How cunning of you. Turn left here.”

Marco complied and they settled into a comfortable silence. When he turned into Jean’s street, he pulled to the side of the road and watched as Jean fumbled to unbuckle his seatbelt.

“I’ll see you later?” he said, though it sounded more like a question.

Jean nodded, opened the car door, and turned to hide his rising blush. “Yeah, of course."

* * *

 

He could hear the faint drumming of music as he ascended the stairs. He took a calming breath and tightened his hold on the door handle. As expected, the thrashing of guitars and singing that sounded more like torture blasted through the apartment. Armin sat perched on the kitchen counter, a magazine in his lap, his eyes scanning from side to side as he read. Jean walked up to him and held out his arms, his silent question evident in his expression.

Armin glanced up. “… Can I help you?”

“What the fuck is he doing? The neighbours complain about us enough as it is.”

Armin shrugged and flipped the page. “I haven’t got a clue.”

“And you haven’t asked him to stop?”

“Not yet. I assume you’re going to.”

“Damn right, I am.” He turned on his heel and stalked through the apartment. He slammed a fist on Eren’s door in lieu of knocking and opened it shortly after. Eren was reclining on his bed, hands folded behind his head, eyes closed as if the songs were relaxing. He hadn’t heard Jean enter and didn’t notice his presence until Jean pulled the plug from the docking station for his battered iPod, ceasing the noise.

“What the hell?” He sat up indignantly, scowling.

“I hear enough shit from you every day without this added onto it,” Jean replied, walking back to the doorway.

“Jesus, who pissed in your cereal this morning?” Eren swung his legs over the side of the bed, his scowl now more closely resembling a smirk.

Armin appeared behind Jean, peering around him into the room. “You haven’t punched each other yet, have you? I think we’re running out of first aid supplies.”

Eren stood; he was an inch or two shorter than Jean, which Jean often took pride in, much to Eren’s annoyance. “No, Jean’s just being a prat.”

Jean gaped at him, which quickly dissolved into glaring. “Oh, _I’m_ the prat?”

“Yeah, you are,” Eren grinned. “Glad you could finally admit it.”

“Oh my G—I hate you so much.” Deciding he no longer wanted to argue with someone who possessed the intelligence and wit of a twelve year old, Jean turned and went back the way he came.

“Is it just me or is he a bit…?” he heard Armin ask, his question trailing off in uncertainty.

Eren snorted. “He’ll be fine when he finally gets laid.”

“I heard that!” Jean called.

* * *

 

“Honestly, can’t you fix your own tie?” Jean watched on in amusement as Eren struggled with his attire, the cloth tied in almost unsalvageable knots about his neck. He’d almost expected him to wear a clip-on.

Armin emerged from his room, pulling his black braces over his shoulders and adjusting his bowtie. Jean gave him the once over; his pale green shirt fit him nicely, even if he did have to roll up the sleeve to account for his cast. Armin sighed as he approached them, although the sight of Jean laughing at Eren’s misfortune was hardly a rarity.

“Jean, just help him with it,” he said. Jean guessed he would’ve sorted him out himself had his lower arm not been encased in plaster.

“Fine,” Jean sighed, and pushed away from the wall to where Eren stood before the mirror. He tugged the crimson tie out of the mess Eren had created and began threading the two ends intricately together, resulting in a complex Eldredge knot. He adjusted the tie so it stayed centred on Eren’s chest and stood back.

“Fancy,” Armin commented, impressed.

Eren looked from Jean, to his tie, and back to Jean again. “Thanks,” he said, though he sounded rather reluctant.

Jean shrugged and then slipped his navy waistcoat on but left it undone. “You guys ready to go?”

They donned their coats and exited the apartment. They’d declined various offers of lifts to and from the bakery on the basis that everyone would most likely be too drunk to drive by the end of the night. They didn’t live too far away, anyway.

Sasha’s New Year’s Eve gatherings tended to attract more than her usual get-togethers; stragglers in their friend group showed up and caught up with others, and some were simply acquaintances accepted in due to festive spirit. Sasha did have one rule, though; everyone had to dress in mostly-formal attire, no exceptions. Jean had made the mistake of questioning Sasha on this rule once, and was still confused even after a ten minute lecture on the merits of dressing up.

Eren and Armin gravitated over to Mikasa’s side of the room as soon as they entered. Mikasa wore a sequined, black dress that cut off just above her knees, and a silky, red scarf in tribute to her usual accessory. As long as he’d known them, Eren and Mikasa had pre-planned their outfits to subtly match. Jean would think it was a dumb idea had he and Connie not also accidentally done the same. The first year Jean had been invited, both he and Connie had turned up in waistcoats. Now, it had turned into somewhat of a tradition.

“Johnny-boy!”

Jean was thrown into an aggressive hug by both Connie and Sasha, one on either side of him.

“Please never call me that again.”

Sasha grinned up at him. “No promises!”

Her dress consisted of a black corset with a skirt made of a loose grey material that looked like water woven into the fabric. He turned to Connie and smirked as he noticed his friend’s gaze linger on her for a little too long.

“Oh, is that Marco?” Sasha asked as the bell above the bakery’s door tinkled. Jean looked over and wondered how she could possibly miss the bright orange dress shirt. “I’ll be right back.”

As the gracious host she was, she trotted over to him and enveloped him in a tight hug. Marco turned rather red in the face; Jean wasn’t sure whether it was from embarrassment of the spectacle Sasha was making of them or the fact that her bone-crushing hug limited his oxygen intake.

“So,” Jean started, bumping his shoulder with Connie’s. “New Year’s Eve. Lots of celebrating. Lots of kisses.”

Connie cleared his throat awkwardly and avoided Jean’s knowing gaze. “Yeah, yeah, real subtle.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You could take that advice too, y’know.”

Jean frowned, his mouth parted slightly. He wet his lips and looked away. “What?”

“You and a certain freckled baker,” Connie sang playfully. “With the way you two keep making eyes at each other, I’m surprised you’re not already in the storage closet on your knees sucking his—”

“Okay, you can really stop now,” Jean interrupted loudly, cuffing Connie on the back of the head.

“Just giving you a few suggestions.”

As Sasha made her way back to them, now with Marco in tow, his wrist held securely in her grasp. Marco greeted them with a kind smile and stood beside Jean, close enough for their hands to accidentally brush.

“Your tie’s crooked,” Jean said to him as Connie and Sasha started debating which of them would win if they were to suddenly gain super powers.

Marco glanced down in surprise. “What?”

Jean held Marco’s shoulders and turned him slightly so they faced each other. He adjusted the tie’s length and settled it against Marco’s shirt. Surprisingly, the soft, teal colour matched his shirt rather well. Jean doubted there was anything Marco couldn’t do without being colourful and cheerful about it.

“Why can none of my friends do their ties properly?” he muttered to himself.

Marco laughed airily. “Well, Armin seems to have fared quite well.”

“That’s ‘cause I taught him how to do bowties a couple of years ago.”

Marco’s brows rose. “A man of many talents I see.”

Jean shrugged modestly. “It comes with the parentage.”

Jean could see the question in Marco’s eyes and the hesitance in his expression. He opened his mouth, thought for a moment, and then closed it again. He swallowed and then asked, “Do you want a drink?”

“I’d love one.”

Marco nodded and darted off.

Jean turned to see how Connie and Sasha were getting on; Connie had developed super strength and Sasha was meddling with nuclear physics when he’d stopped listening. They were no longer debating, but fixing him with identical amused grins.

“What?”

“You make a wonderful doting wife,” Sasha said, and Connie nodded in agreement.

* * *

 

After hours of endless drinking, snacking, and dancing with various friends (including Mikasa but that was mostly just to piss Eren off and _no_ , of course he didn’t blush, that would be ridiculous), the fresh air outside was a relief. It cooled his face and made a delightful contrast to the reasonably stuffy room.

He couldn’t tell how much time had passed since he had neither his phone nor his watch on him, but he figured he should return to the party soon. It was nearing midnight.

The door beside Jean opened and he watched as Marco slipped out. Jean moved over slightly and Marco took the space beside him, both leaning against the wall.

“Not fond of crowds?” Marco asked.

“Not particularly.”

A few moments passed by in silence. Marco had turned so his side was pressed along the wall and he was facing Jean.

“You want to ask something,” Jean said, head tilted upwards and eyes closed.

“Yeah,” Marco replied softly. “I don’t want to be too intrusive, though.”

Jean cracked an eye open and looked at Marco. “Then how about we trade? Question for question.”

Marco pondered on this, then nodded. “Okay, but tell me if you don’t want to answer something.”

Jean stood up a little straighter, his hands slipped into his pockets. “Sure. You go first.”

“It’s kind of a general query about your parents,” he said, and Jean had been expecting it. “What did you mean before? With the tie.”

“There’s not much too it.” He paused for a while, but Marco didn’t press on. He simply waited. “They’re, like, lawyers or something. You know, for big businesses and firms. Corrupt pieces of shit. They make a living through exploiting loopholes and getting companies through risky situations, and I’ve never liked it. They get money, though, lots of it. You pick up a few things hanging out with rich guys as a kid.”

Marco nodded, but didn’t comment. “It’s your turn.”

Jean sighed and thought. “What happened in the fire? I know I asked before but I was kinda rude and—”

“Yeah, you were.” Jean gave an insulted huff and Marco just grinned at him. “Hey, you said it first.”

“Anyway,” Jean continued, “I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” Marco said. “I get enough weird looks, really. You get used to it.”

Jean’s brows dipped as he frowned. He’d noticed the scar tissue snaked around Marco’s neck when he’d met him, but he hardly paid much attention to it. He was more than his wounds.

“It happened when I was twelve. Something caught fire in the kitchen during the night and by the time we woke up, the whole house was on fire.” He coughed quietly to clear his throat. “I was half asleep when it happened. One of my sisters came to get me and I fell on the way out. I got burnt and had to go to hospital. I couldn’t talk for a while, either; too much smoke inhalation.”

“Oh.” Jean wasn’t sure what to say. Before he could embarrass himself with a reply, Marco spoke again.

“The scars were worse when I was younger. I used to get teased a lot in school but people are nicer now. Or, at least, they don’t say what they think.”

“Hey, give yourself some credit,” Jean said. He didn’t like the way Marco’s face had fallen, or the sadness in his eyes. “You’re not defined by your scars or your past. People are nicer because they like you.”

Marco’s lips curved in a small smile. “Including you?”

Jean, caught off-guard, stared for a second, then said, “Yeah, including me.”

“My turn,” Marco announced. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Jean laughed and shook his head. “Seriously?” Marco nodded eagerly. “Okay, fine. I want to be a lawyer.”

“But I thought—”

“Not that kind,” Jean carried on. “I couldn’t live with myself if I took advantage of people and abused power for a living. I want to be a good lawyer, one who helps people. I don’t know if I want to go into family law or criminal law yet, but…” He shrugged, leaving his sentence open-ended.

“You’ll be great no matter what you choose,” Marco assured him. “You probably don’t hear it a lot, but I think you care about people. You care about people who don’t get a say and who get taken advantage of.”

Jean stared wordlessly. It took a while for his brain to kick into gear and function again. “Thanks, Marco.”

“Your turn,” he reminded.

“Right. Uh, why did you go into baking?” It was a lame question but his cognitive capacity had been greatly reduced by Marco’s earlier statements.

“My mom taught me.” He smiled as if remembering sweet memories from years ago. “She used to cook all the time but she got scared of the kitchen after the fire. My sisters are older than me so they were busy a lot with school and social lives. I stayed home and helped around the house and cooked. I’m good at it and I like it, so I figured I could try to get a job it in after I got the necessary formal training.”

“That’s sweet,” Jean said. He gathered from Marco’s somewhat intimate tone that it was not a story he shared often. Then again, Jean rarely spoke about his parents, yet Marco knew all about them now.

The door opened again and Armin poked his head out. His cheeks were flushed from exertion and his hair was tousled atop his head. “Guys, you’re gonna miss the countdown!”

“We can’t have that!” Marco exclaimed in reply, earning a delighted giggle from Armin. He glanced over to Jean, who nodded and followed him inside.

Everyone was stood in a misshapen circle, waiting for the countdown to reach single digits. The clock ticked, voices grew louder, excitement swelled.

_5…_

_4…_

_3…_

_2…_

_1…_

They cheered as one. Glasses chinked, bodies embraced. Jean smiled and looked around just in time to see Sasha beam and perch on her toes to press her lips to Connie’s, her arms thrown around his neck.

“Think she’ll make me bake her wedding cake?” Marco asked from beside Jean.

“Only if she doesn’t insist on doing it herself,” he replied, holding his glass up to clink with Marco’s.

Marco’s gaze flicked down to the glass but he ignored it, opting instead to press a kiss to the area further along than Jean’s cheek, but not reaching quite his lips. The kiss was brief but he lingered for a moment and Jean found himself curling a hand into Marco’s shirt. Marco smiled faintly. He touched their foreheads together, their noses brushing in the close proximity.

“Happy New Year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these chapters keep getting longer and longer
> 
> i feel no regret in informing you that their outfits come from [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4985UQLDVNg)


	8. Chapter 8

Despite the fact that the threat of school was looming over the horizon and Jean knew he should really be preparing for his classes, the late morning found him lounging across the worn sofa, content with scrolling through Netflix and remaining stationary for hours on end. Eren and Armin had yet to return from their hometown, having been visiting families and friends for the New Year. They’d texted him the night before letting him know they’d chosen to stay over in light of the weather and late hour. Jean didn’t mind. It just meant he could wander around in his underwear, wrapped in a blanket, of course, to fend off the biting chill of the apartment, without Eren screeching at him.

Aside from his two roommates, he’d heard little from his other friends. He assumed they’d been visiting their own families or sleeping off hangovers, perhaps now working again as the magic of the New Year wore off and the holiday season passed. The bakery was probably open, if he felt like jogging over to get some food. Sasha’s father never liked it closed for long.

Jean’s phone lay silently on his chest. His rumbling stomach was the only thing keeping him awake, yet he was far too comfortable to even consider moving. Just as his eyelids began to droop, his phone buzzed. The sharp noise and gentle vibrations on his chest startled him, the shock almost tipping him off the couch. He caught his phone as it slipped away.

_From Marco:  
Theoretical question for you: if I asked you out, what would your reply be? :-)_

Jean stared at the small screen.

He blinked. He blinked again. The message remained.

Not a hallucination, then.

His fingers tapped out a reply before his brain had quite caught up.

_To Marco:  
theoretically??_

_From Marco:  
Of course. :-)_

Marco’s reply was instantaneous, leaving Jean wondering if he was doing nothing else aside from waiting for Jean’s answer. With a distinct lack of wakefulness and cognitive ability, Jean fell back on his dry humour and sarcasm.

_To Marco:  
well it depends. would you be theoretically asking me out via text message?_

It wasn’t exactly much of a conclusive answer but Jean needed to buy himself some time. He’d been expecting something like this to happen since the party. However, after far too much time alone and many hours of overthinking, he’d led himself to the conclusion that perhaps Marco would want to merely remain friends; perhaps his actions on New Year’s Eve were the results of a few too many glasses of spiked punch; perhaps he was a serial killer waiting for the opportune moment to strike his target, only after gaining their trust through baked goods. Left alone with his imagination, Jean had conjured up numerous ways in which this situation could play out, but in none of them had he spent much time thinking about his reply.

His phone vibrated in his hand once again, but it was drawn out in a repetitive series of buzzes. He glanced down and saw Marco’s smiling face gazing back up at him, his phone informing him of the identity of the incoming caller.

Jean tapped ‘answer’ and heard Marco’s voice say, “No, I’d theoretically ask you out via phone call.”

Jean gave a quiet snort of laughter. His eyes drifted towards the clock hung to the right of the television. It was midday, when the bakery was usually at its busiest, and Marco was taking the time to call him.

“Aren’t you at work?” he asked, very much aware that he was changing the subject.

“Well, yeah, it’s kinda hectic out front,” Marco replied, in the tone of a schoolboy defending his questionable actions, “but we’re prepared enough. We haven’t had any outbursts about the ratio of icing to sprinkles yet, so I think we’re all good.”

“So you decided to call me?”

“Sasha said I could take a call as long as it was quick and about something important.”

Jean paused, his mouth slightly parted. He wetted his lips, swallowed, and said in a somewhat self-depreciating tone, “How is calling me important?”

Marco immediately quipped, “Dates with cute boys are always important.”

Jean smirked to himself. “You know, technically you haven’t asked me yet,” he said, voice cocky.

“I’d better rectify that, then,” and Jean wondered if Marco knew he’d caught the nervous waver in his voice. Marco gave a moment’s pause, and then asked, “Jean Kirschtein, will you go on a date with me?”

“Well, since you asked so persuasively,” he replied teasingly, “sure.”

“Ah, uh, great!” He could practically hear the smile in Marco’s voice. “I, uh, I have to go now but I’ll talk to you later, ‘kay?”

Jean, thoroughly amused by Marco’s flustered tone, drew out a long, “Okay.”

“Bye, Jean.”

“See you later, Marco.”

The line went silent and he slowly lowered his phone from his ear, staring at the screen with a disbelieving smile. A particularly loud growl from his stomach roused him from his stupor. Half-convinced that if he lazed about much longer his stomach would start digesting him from the inside out, he stood up in one long motion, stretched, and headed to the kitchen.

His mind whirred as he set about gathering a bowl of cereal. That had been easy, almost strangely so. Then again, that summed up most of his relationship with Marco; it just flowed with a natural ease, almost as if they were characters in a play simply acting through the motions dictated to them. Jean had been quite happily walking his own path when he’d stumbled across Marco, who’d taken it upon himself to fall neatly into step beside him. It felt odd that he’d only known the man for a few months—a relatively short amount of time, all things considered.

His phone screen was alight with a message when he returned to the couch.

_From Armin:  
We’ll be back  at ~5pm xx_

Throwing a prolonged look to his surroundings, Jean gave a weary sigh and straightened his back; the first step of the gargantuan task of cleaning up his mess. He tapped a quick ‘ _okay :)’_ in reply and stood.

Fifty minutes, lots of swearing, and a change of clothes later, Jean stood mostly clothed in a mostly tidy apartment, and decided that it was good enough. He could at least see the floor now, so that was an improvement.

Eren and Armin arrived a few hours later, Armin rubbing blearily at his eyes with a satchel full of books slung over his shoulder, and Eren chattering animatedly, a large bag in each hand. He greeted them as they walked in and watched as they separated into their bedrooms. The time away, however brief it may have been, must’ve been good for them; they looked fresher, rejuvenated, as if being stuffed to the brim with family recipes had given them a new lease of life.

Armin was the first to join him on the couch, sinking back into the mismatched cushions they’d gathered over the years.

“How’s your grandpa?” Jean asked.

Armin gave a small shrug, but his lips curved in a smile nonetheless. “He’s getting better. He’s on new medication and this volunteer organisation is helping out around the house.”

Jean grinned. “That’s pretty great. Guess that’s less for you to worry about, right?”

Armin shifted so his cast was resting atop the arm rest. “The only thing I’m worried about right now is dinner. I don’t want to cook but I know that if I leave it up to you we’ll all be having cereal.”

Jean gave an uneasy laugh, gaze darting to the kitchen where his bowl and spoon were still sat in the sink. “Takeout?”

“Takeout.”

“I’ll go get the menus.” Jean stood and pulled his jeans up from where they’d slipped down his hips. Without looking over, he called, “Oi, Eren, you good with Chinese?”

“Yeah!” came the reply from his room, where he was no doubt calling Mikasa to check she’d made it home safely.

When Jean returned laden with various takeout menus, Eren was sat on the floor by Armin’s feet, leaning back against the blonde’s legs with papers spread around him. He could tell from Eren’s pinched brows and slight frown that it was last minute homework.

Eren and Jean first argued about where to get the food from. Armin picked a place at random. They argued about what to order. Armin took the phone from Jean and ordered for them. Jean went to ask how they were paying, but Armin shot him a look, so he remained quiet. They split the payment equally, each cobbling together bills and coins until they had enough between them.

The order arrived with wooden chopsticks, which Jean and Armin were fine with using, but Eren, much to Jean’s amusement, struggled greatly. Once he’d finally split the chopsticks apart, he couldn’t quite get his grasp on them correct. They slipped and slid, pieces of meat and vegetables never quite making it to his mouth before they fell. Armin took pity on him once he got to the noodles, and moved to the floor to help him out. He moved his fingers and adjusted his grip, but even Armin’s careful guidance and advice wasn't enough to save him.

“Oh my God, I’ll just go get a fork,” Jean said, watching sweet and sour chicken fall to the floor again. Eren shot him a glare, unwilling to admit defeat, but Armin didn’t manage to fully smother his laugh.

Jean scrambled up and made his way to the kitchen. As he opened the cutlery drawer, his phone buzzed with a call for the second time that day. He answered once again to Marco’s voice.

“So I thought I’d call you once I got off work but there was a bit of a disaster involving pumpkin puree so it’s a bit later than I thought it would be,” Marco rambled, his words slightly slurred with exhaustion.

Jean turned his back to the living room and ducked his head, hiding his grin from his roommates. “Hi.”

Marco sighed. “Hey. How’re you?”

“I—yeah—good, thanks. You sound tired.”

“Mm, I am. Long day.” There was a pause before he continued, “I wanted to talk to you, though.”

“What about?”

“Are you free tomorrow evening?”

“Uh, it’s Thursday today, right? Yeah, why?”

Marco laughed softly and said in a tone used for small children, “Our date, you dummy.”

“What—oh, right. Date. Yeah. Us. Date. I’m absolutely free tomorrow evening. For our date. What’re we doing?”

Marco’s laughter continued, but he at least sounded like he was trying to hold it in. “It’s a surprise. Dress warmly, though. Can I pick you up at six?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. I’ll, uh, let you get back to whatever you were doing. See you tomorrow, Jean.”

Jean nodded, belatedly realising that Marco couldn’t see. “Yeah. See you.”

His phone went silent and returned to the lock screen, but Jean still stood with it pressed against his ear. If he concentrated, he could still hear Marco laughing—

“Kirschtein, what the fuck are you doing? Is getting a fork too difficult for you?”

Jean jumped and spun around. Eren stood with his arms crossed and brows raised. He walked over to the still-open drawer, pulled out a fork, and closed it.

“What’s got you grinning like an idiot?” Eren asked with a wicked smirk.

Jean, his cheeks stained with a blush, flipped him off and stalked out of the room. “None of your business, asshole.”

“Real subtle,” Eren quipped back, following him back to the couch.

“What’s real subtle?” Armin asked, head peaking over the top of the couch. Jean grumbled for them to shut up and took his plate of rice and beef, shovelling it into his mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

Jean spent most of Friday like he had Thursday, doing nothing productive and ignoring his conscience, only this time with the added bonus of fretting over is date. How much time did he need to get ready? Four hours was a bit ridiculous, right? Should he tell the others about the date? No, Eren would just mock him endlessly. Armin, then? Wait, Armin was out. Actually, so was Eren. Maybe he should—

Jean plucked his pillow from his bed and buried his face into it. He was being pathetic. Utterly pathetic. He’d been on first dates before, plenty of them. True, some were awful, but others had been fun. Yet, somehow, none of them really felt like this. They didn’t carry the same weight or make him feel so anxious; they didn’t make him want to simultaneously dance with joy and puke with nerves.

He heard the front door open and then close, Armin’s voice shortly announcing his return. Jean wandered out from his room, clad in thick, woollen socks, boxer shorts, and a faded hoody. Armin shrugged his coat off and turned to Jean, unravelling his scarf. He paused, thought better of it, and started winding it around his neck again. Jean didn't blame him. They'd be seeing their breath soon with how cold it was inside.

“How’d it go?”

“Fairly well,” Armin said. “We agreed that I can go back starting next week, but only to man the cashier. Not allowed to help out in the back or carry heavy orders for now.”

Jean leaned against the wall, head cocked to one side. “Sounds kinda boring.”

“Yeah, but I’ll take what I can get. None of us can really afford to extend the paid vacation.”

Jean gave a deep sigh. “Armin, you know you can—“

Armin held up a hand and shook his head. A few strands of hair fell into his eyes. “Jean. Don’t. I appreciate the offer, I really do, but I just. I can’t.”

Jean chewed lightly at his lower lip. A few beats of silence passed between them, their eye contact never faltering. Eventually Jean caved and nodded. “Okay, fine. But please, just think about it.”

“I will.” He moved past Jean, towards his room, but paused in his step and looked over his shoulder. “Don’t think I’m letting you out of telling me about this date of yours.”

He continued walking away, leaving Jean to splutter wordlessly. Once the teasing remark had sunk in and its words had translated to meanings in Jean’s head, he hurried after Armin, following him into the other’s room.

“How did you even—I just— _how_?”

Armin snorted as he stretched to retrieve a thick, leather-bound book from his highest shelf. “Very eloquent, dear. I’m actually kind of insulted you thought I wouldn’t find out.”

Jean huffed and took a seat at the foot of Armin’s bed. “I was going to tell you. Eventually. Maybe. How did you find out?”

Armin smiled to himself and sat beside Jean, holding the book to his chest. “Eren was right. You’re really unsubtle. And so is Marco.”

Jean leaned forwards and buried his face in his hands. Most of his responses to this situation seemed to be burying his face in something or other. “It only happened yesterday and I’m still kinda convinced I hallucinated it.”

Armin bumped his shoulder against Jean’s in a display of consolation. “Well, it’s about time, anyway.” When Jean perked up and shot him a confused glance, he continued, “We’ve been expecting it for ages.”

Jean’s mouth moved for a moment before he settled on his choice of words. “I’ve known him for, like, what? Two months, maybe?”

“Yeah, but we expected you to get together after the first week.”

“You’re fucking with me, right?” Jean flailed in a wild gesture, trying to convey how ridiculous that sentiment was. “I didn’t even like him to start with!”

“Sure you didn’t.”

Jean, in a moment of immense immaturity, gave a groan and fell backwards against Armin’s bed. “You guys suck. I hate all of you.”

Armin patted his leg and stood to leave. “No, you don’t.”

“I hate that you’re always right.”

 

* * *

 

Jean paced. And paced. And paced. He stopped in front of the mirror, checked his hair, and paced again.

“Will you stop that?” Armin called from another room. “You’re making me nervous and I’m not even the one with a date.”

Eren’s head popped out of the kitchen, where he was wrestling with the ingredients and instructions for instant ramen. “Wait, what date? _That_ loser got a date?”

Jean rolled his eyes.

“Seriously? You?” Eren grinned, leaning against the wall of the hallway, standing opposite Jean.

“Shut up.” It didn’t hold its usual animosity, but he had other things to worry about. He’d decided, after going through all of his clothes twice, on wearing black jeans and a soft, grey cashmere sweater, with a green pea coat over the top. He had one of Sasha’s homemade scarves, from her brief affair with knitting, wrapped around his neck and a pair of gloves stuffed in his pockets, just to be safe.

“Eren, leave him alone,” Armin shouted. Eren gave Jean a once-over, and then obliged, slinking off towards Armin’s room.

Jean tapped his fingers against his thigh. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned on the display. _18:03._

A knock against the thick, wooden door sounded throughout the apartment, and Jean pulled it open only seconds later.

Marco stood on the other side of the threshold, smile wide and cheeks flushed. Jean noticed how his scarf and hat matched, both striped green and blue, and the thread on the top button of his coat was loose. His posture was relaxed, friendly, but something in his eyes betrayed the apprehension he felt.

“Hi, Jean,” Marco greeted happily.

“Hey.”

He checked his pockets for his keys, wallet, and phone, and called a farewell to the others.

“Have fun!” was Armin’s response.

“Don’t get chlamydia,” was Eren’s.

Marco laughed at their antics and stepped back to allow Jean to pass.

“So,” Jean started, as they headed down to the ground floor. “Where’re we going?”

Marco smiled at him. “The nature of a surprise, Jean, is that you don’t know about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hear that there are writers who have regular update schedules and i both admire and envy them
> 
> the original draft for this went on for like twice as long but when i fleshed it out it started getting away from me and i ended up with this and weeellll it's better to have something than nothing right??? :|


End file.
